Starting to Take Charge

Registering my profile with a couple of dating sites turned out to be the easy part, although it didn't feel easy at the time. But it was merely a business transaction, done and done. I still have one of my receipts from the end of February 2011. That was four and a half years after my husband died.

Then I waited to be contacted, passively looking through the catalogues of pictures and statements. This one looks nice, I'd think. I wouldn't mind if that one wrote to me. But I didn't do anything more than that.

Little baby steps were all I could manage. What did I know about dating in the 21st century? The last time I'd been single was in the 1980s, when women like me were just beginning to offer a man their phone number without being asked. I met my late husband Al before I could get used to the idea. Too forward, my mother would have said in that judgmental voice I had accepted and internalized.

So I waited for the notifications, like a sleeping princess who had slept through her middle age without answering her wake-up calls.

Over the next month, some men wrote to me, although not necessarily the ones I would have chosen for myself. I corresponded with some and spoke on the phone with others. But I didn't get to the stage of face-to-face meetings with anyone. Baby steps.

 Early on, an intense writing fest with one man ended precipitously when he disappeared, not just from my inbox, but from the dating site entirely. I fretted about that. Was it something I wrote? I was tempted to take this personally as some kind of abandonment. I was looking for a sign that I should quit, but I guess I wasn't willing to abandon myself so easily.

Besides, with each encounter I was learning about the fragility of feelings and fantasies--my own as well as those of the men with whom I was corresponding. Many had good intentions and were feeling their way through this new method of meeting someone special. We were of an age where bereavement, divorce, or other kinds of disappointed hope had made us raw. Our first attempts were clumsy and regressive, but that was no reason to quit.

Another man, with whom I had set up a meeting, let me know the morning of our date that he had met and been seeing another woman  and wanted to give that budding relationship a chance. He must not have realized fully how he felt until that morning. At the time, I thought he was simply a man who was out of touch with his feelings, and maybe he was. But now I know that the whole process forces a focus on quantity and quick decisions.

 You can't wait for men to contact you! one of my friend Susan exclaimed when I told her about my minimal efforts. She had met her partner on the web and knew the ropes. You need to contact them! You need go through numbers--at least five a week!

I ran this by other friends who viewed my reluctance with surprise. When I could find no allies whose views on dating hadn't evolved beyond mid-century modern, I sat myself down, picked five profiles that didn't seem so bad and drafted a note that I could tweak and send to each one.

Like submitting work for publication or a resume for a job, I got into a rhythm that overrode my resistance. Did he write something counter to what I was seeking? Was his photograph out of focus? Tough, I needed to make my quota, and, besides, most of the profile fit my wishes. That was good enough for my list.

The Wisdom of Women, Part I

I have always depended on the wisdom of women. So it was only natural for me to seek the advice of my women friends when I embarked on Internet dating. It didn't matter whether they had personal experience or not. If they hadn't, they encouraged. If they had, they advised. Some just led by doing. My friends were my coaches and mentors.

They brushed aside all of my reservations. They just wanted me to try. With their help I came up with a game plan that I could fall back on when I faltered. And I did falter. Old insecurities rose from the depths. I relived the embarrassment of being too tall in high school and too shy at college mixers. I redeveloped a blush that I thought I had lost long ago. 

If I hadn't witnessed similar unwelcome resurrections in my friends who had struck out on this  path before me, I would have shrivelled up in shame and quit. One friend who had reconnected with a high school boyfriend, had gotten uncharacteristically giggly and confused when she talked about her first date. She's a very successful and (usually) poised business woman. Over dinner one night, she quivered, "Should I call him or should I wait until he calls me?" The next moment, her fingers were sending him a text, which in the next moment she wished she could take back.

I got to see beneath the layers of sophistication and self-assurance that she had created over the years. She was sixteen again and worried about boys. Her girlish anxieties and concerns had been preserved perfectly, like fossils brought back to life in Jurassic Park.

I knew that it would be no different for me when my time came. I was going to fall prey to a riot of conflicting emotions,--heightened emotions--after years of dulling down my feelings. I can't say I was ready, only that I had decided to stop worrying about it and take the plunge

Another New Identity

I thought about Internet dating for months without doing anything about it.  I wasn't sure that I wanted to leave my comfort zone, but something inside of me was urging me to fly out of the nest. I was 61 years old, healthy and vital, and afraid of loving and losing again.

And that's not all I feared. Over the last four and a half years, I had built a new identity for myself as a widow. In my mind this imbued me with an air of dignity and self-sufficiency. I tended to dress all in black anyway, but I may have played that role up a bit. In my everyday black jeans and black shirts, I wanted to look like the Manhattan professor who had it all together--had gotten it all together-- no matter what life had thrown her way. I guess I was hoping to overcome the pity and fear that widowhood brings out in most people. Pride had something to do with it, but pride doesn't keep you warm at night.

Placing myself in the dating game meant that I was just another single woman seeking a man. It made me feel vulnerable and wanting. The last time I'd been single was in my 30s, when I had attitude. Here I am you lucky men. Who is going to buy me dinner tonight? After twenty contented years with my husband and a decade of family illnesses, my attitude had slipped away into a distant memory.

It took me a while to even mention the possibility to my friends. Saying it out loud and hearing their encouragement helped me enormously. (More about that later.) In fact they were more than encouraging. I got the sense that they were thinking it's about time! They helped me ease into the flow of time, which changes us whether we will it or not. I didn't want to petrify into the "Widder Barbara" with black veils covering all my mirrors. That wasn't dignified. It was horrifying, but sometimes when I'd spent too much time alone, it seemed inevitable.

So I took the first step and drafted a profile. It didn't feel so threatening. After all, I consoled myself, I don't have to do anything with it. I can hold on to it until I'm ready to post it somewhere. And if I'm never ready--no harm done. I made notes. What did I seek in a man? What did I have to offer? It was hardly a revolutionary way to begin, but it didn't have to be. Writing feeds writing, and the process helped me  forget my doubts and fears. What do I like to do? Who have I become through the years of my life? I wrote and wrote, and it was good for me to declare myself, my many roles, and my wishes for my future.

Too Young to Be Alone

There is comfort in a regulated life. After nearly five years of widowhood and two years after my mother died, I knew how my days and weeks would be. Students, papers, and meetings during the week. Movies, concerts, and dinners with friends on the weekends.

No more emergencies. No more long-distance calls to doctors or checking in with aides. No more coming to school hauling my overnight bag for my monthly trip to Florida. No more sitting in the sun with my mother in her wheelchair while she looked off somewhere in the distance or looked at me with perplexity. No more of those moments when she seemed to recognize me for a moment or two, beaming and smiling, until she drifted back to wherever she went in or out of her mind.

After she died I was responsible for myself only. I was lonely, but there was a relief in the sudden simplicity of my life. I knew I could follow my uncomplicated routine indefinitely. I was grateful for  the lack of drama.

It's hard to pry oneself out of a complacent existence. Part of me wanted more. Part of me wanted nothing but rest.

My neighbor had been widowed several years before me, and after some time had passed, her mother took her to task. "You're too young to be alone. Find someone!" My neighbor, a sophisticated and accomplished professional who was used to running her own life, obeyed and entered the world of Internet dating.

Back then I was busy with my family illnesses. Nevertheless I followed her attempts, admired her perseverance through the flops, and cheered her success when she met her compatible new mate.

There came the day in my widowed life when I decided to borrow her mother's wisdom. She might as well have been my mother for all the resistance I felt. Finding someone was a daunting task, an ordeal. But I knew it was in my best interest to proceed, so that's what I did.