This Was My 110th First Date

A Personal Perspective: You really do win some and lose some in dating.

To be clear, it was the 110th first date since my last divorce. I keep a list. It helps me keep perspective and not lose hope. I wish I could say this was my “last first date,” as so many men croon they’re after in dating profiles. But alas, no. Likely many more to follow.

If 110 sounds like an exhausting, mind-numbing lot, let’s do the math. I divorced about six years ago, so 110 dates divided by roughly 72 months is one or two per month. It’s not so crazy. Just saying.

Mr. 110 (I’m straight; perhaps a proclivity I should reconsider?), looked great in profile. A retired health sciences faculty, he wasn’t too tall (I’m significantly under 5 feet), looked Jewish, and claimed to be Buddhist (Jew-boo?), liked to read, appreciated therapy (went weekly), and boasted two professional kids (a lawyer and art teacher). So far, so good.

He didn’t offer to buy my tea. OK, no sweat, give the guy a chance. Next, he sat down with his mocha-frap towering with four inches of whipped cream and confessed he has high cholesterol. He usually eats what he is “supposed to.” Except now. The cream looked delicious, so I asked if he “needed any help?” “Nope, I’m good,” he insisted.

I admit, I have a bad habit of asking questions. I’m a therapist, it’s an occupational hazard. I try not to; I don’t want anyone to feel they’re being interviewed or “figured out.” But when awkward silences pop up, I can’t help it. “You lived in Europe?” I asked, cribbing from his profile. (I brushed up before walking in.)

“Yup,” he said. He was a painter and long ago clinched a short-term gig in Europe, he told me. He met his wife there (repeatedly calling her “wife,” instead of “ex-wife”), and stayed.

In my defense, I didn’t ask many questions. He went on. And on. He loves his therapist (good); she “saved his life” (questionably good?) and he “does anything she tells him” (not so good). He’s in group therapy because she recommended it, but he doesn’t like it. He prefers individual sessions where it’s all about him.

Besides, group members “freaked out” when he told them about his “hard life.” And right now, life is hard; he’s “broke.” He also recently learned from his therapist that he “has no boundaries. Really, no boundaries.”

I’m not making this up.

110 went on to relay he'd had a torrid affair with a married woman after his divorce. Not that I'd asked. She was the scion of someone “for sure you’d know the last name of,” in the next city. They met at the gym, and it was quite steamy, sounds like. For some reason, she decided to stay with her husband rather than with 110.

He scooped up the last of his whipped cream, leaving a white trail on his lip, and mentioned his diabetes. Also, several heart attacks, strokes. I hadn’t asked.

As older adults, we all have physical quirks and emotional baggage, c’mon. It’s not about having them so much as having the capacity to work through in a healthy way. Otherwise, they just clog the next relationship. I’ve done it, believe me, mea culpa.