You know those nights. You wrestle with a raw dose of reality, your own or someone else’s, or imagine ways to create world peace, or wonder how long you can listen to the squeak of the ceiling fan. Once in a while a restless bedtime will lead to an all-nighter. For me that is a sleepless fest of mindless trips to the fridge and half-hearted attempts to read another chapter, all interrupted by Google quests and Facebook checks.
One of those nights I decided to follow some sisterly advice and check out a dating site specifically for seniors, which turned out to be a rather loosely-defined term. I gave it a whirl: posted a current photo; streamlined the most exciting parts of my life for the bio; and created a lighthearted description of the sort of fella that might interest me.
Somehow I misrepresented myself. Regardless of the decade that produced those males who responded, a majority had the particular stipulation for a motorcycle momma. They preferred one who was an intellectual/philosophical fit and looked like Melania Trump.
For starters, I am shorter than she is. Secondly, I wouldn’t climb on the back of a motorcycle driven by a fella I had known for years cause the smooth, steady, suave skills of his younger days were long gone. So, there is no way I would put life and limb in jeopardy riding with an unfamiliar soul. Heck, I can’t even successfully steer a scooter myself!
Then there is the universal joy of karaoke that seems to be shared by most mature singles. There are super karaoke performers out there. I tried it, and my performance critique varies based on the condition of those listening, if you get my drift.
Not that motorcycles and music won’t be in my future. I don’t like to rule anything out, EXCEPT continuing membership on a dating site. Leaving that up to fate and the weather has worked out just fine.
