I'm Drowning and I Can't Get Out:)

 The older I get, the deeper the dating pool available to me. It's so immersive that one can drown in it, either by diving headfirst into a cesspool and attempting to swim or death by a thousand repeated conversations that go something like this.

"So, how do you know________?" (Insert the name of the now former friend that set you up)

"How long are you divorced/widowed/single?"

"Kids?"

(Excruciating tales of woe are exchanged over bites of overpriced appetizers. In some cases, alcohol doubles as both an anesthetic and a homicide deterrent.)

In the age of the Metaverse, you may be lucky to even go out on an actual date. Usually, it's frenzied text messages that are a virtual Spanish inquisition where conversations, inadvertently, get lost in "textation," and you're ready to retain an attorney or at least block the number. Another option is an awkward facetime with someone behind the wheel of their car at an unflattering angle that can often be harsh…on me.  

Over the many years that I've been unattached from anyone that didn't call me "Mom," I have met a slew of men, some just coming out of diapers and others going into them. The landscape has devolved from a magnificent Monet to a fifth grader's etching on his grandmother's refrigerator. Though the kid's parents and grandparents think he's Jackson Pollack, we all know he's just an average 10-year-old with a few Sharpies. Whether the rampant narcissism permeating our culture or the result of a Jewish Mother, everyone thinks they are a ten and deserve a size 2, youthful arm candy. It doesn't matter if the guy is a balding schlub whose kids don't talk to him anymore or a presentable, well-preserved middle-aged guy who tells you he only dates women twenty years younger than you; the options are "Meh" or "_____" (insert expletive). This torturous tango has made me swear off dating for years, apart from some well-intentioned individuals setting me up. Other scenarios include the random hot guy in the lane next to me who lowers his sunglasses at the red light and asks me to pull over, only to discover that he's 5 foot 5 and has three baby mamas. (Not that I have anything against petite men who procreate). After experiencing dating PTSD, I decided to be open to the universe sending this old Chiquita, my handsome prince, with a torn meniscus and a prostate issue. With the drought of potential candidates appearing in my "DMS," I leaped (ok, maybe walked) at the chance of a pleasant date with a respectable, age-appropriate man that a close friend suggested I meet. Having just lost my father, I took it as a sign from the heavens; maybe my father was finally sending me the love of my life or at least someone to pick me up when I fall in the future.

I am sure you can anticipate the disaster that ensued. I did, but at this age, you give anyone single with a pulse an opportunity. Here's how it went down.

"Chanie" (I'm not changing her name because she ain't innocent) is a blonde, preppy ex-principal on her second marriage to a retired attorney  I once dated for five minutes. Since then, he has been married and divorced to another woman, met THIS sweet-natured beauty, and sealed the deal eight years ago. They have an apartment in the building I live in, are based in New York, and travel most of the year. Chanie and I have the same birthday and hit it off over the past four years. She had been a matchmaker on the dating site "Saw you at Sinai" but had experienced too much drama to continue volunteering. In June, she approached me at the pool during a vulnerable moment.

"Henshi, I have someone I'd like you to meet.. You know that I have never set you up before, and I wouldn't just match you with some random dude. He's a great guy, and he's even willing to fly you to NY to see him.

(How exotic)

"I don't need him to fly me to New York; My kids are there, and I go all the time. I will be there next month. I'm babysitting five adorable yet exhausting girls under 8 while their parents go on a well-deserved vacation. When I'm there, I have no time and go to sleep after I put the kids to bed because I'm up early making pancakes. I enjoy it, but it's like going out on a date during Bootcamp. It would be better if he could fly down to Miami when I'm in my environment without munchkins," I replied

(Apparently, he has grown kids, no grandkids, and is semi-retired)

"Ok, I will give him your number and you guys can talk. His name is "Eli Schwartz," not THAT "Eli Schwartz," another one."

(The "Eli Schwartz" we were referring to is a complicated guy who served some time at a well-known Federal "camp")

"Oh," she appended, "Just a heads up; he's a little depressed.

"Well, at least he's not a criminal…right?"

I know this sounds extraordinarily appealing, but I'm always up to one date or conversation, and I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, even if my gut is yelling "Mayday," and it was.

The next day Eli called me. His voice was laced with bitterness and loneliness, precisely what I was missing. After a decent conversation, I realized that I didn't want this guy to make a trip to see me, so I agreed to meet him when I was in NY. I told him that he would have to drive to where my kids live and meet me for lunch while the kids were in camp, and I had a babysitter for the baby. He agreed or seemed to because when I got to NY and wanted to arrange a lunch date, he told me I would have to wait a week to see him because he cut his hair too short and needed it to grow in. I kid you not.

Though I didn't meet him, this didn't prevent him from calling me daily. When I finally phoned Chanie, she told me to cut him off and infer that I was seeing someone. When I asked her why the heck would she suggest this, she explained that it was her husband that compelled her to do it.

If only she were honest.

Maybe I need a sugar daddy or, at my age, a sugar "deady?"