Starting Over

Dating in middle age, it has to be said, is a bizarre experience.

Starting Over - closetdramablog on wordpress
Photo by Clem Onojeheghuo on Unsplash

Really regretting waxing my chin this morning. I’m going out for a meal with Drew tonight and I look like an acid attack victim!

Don’t, whatever you do, tell him you wax your chin, Mum – just don’t.

OK, OK, I promise – unless my face falls off and lands in the curry.


Is it modern or mad to be set up by your own daughter?

Liz’s mission to get Mum out there began with advertising me online, but when I tired of shopping for a match on websites and began to feel it was vaguely distasteful, Plan B was put into action.

 I’m not saying I was actively looking for a lifelong partner; someone to get dressed up for and go out with was all I was really interested in, but no-one seemed to believe me.

After a long marriage and a few years separated, those around me opined I couldn’t be truly happy unless I was paired off in a permanent relationship again.  Apparently, everybody wants to be with somebody.  I had no expectation of that ever happening and instead focused on making sure I chose to be happy with my single status.  Living in hope of finding happiness with a man seemed a sure way of being unhappy until it happened – and it might never happen.

However, I agreed to give Liz’s target male my number and let him know that, as Liz and her partner, Tony, insisted we would get along, I was game if he was.  I wasn’t thrilled to be the chaser – not thrilled at all, but  Drew would never have made the first move.  It had been a very long time since he had been out for dinner with a woman, he’d been divorced less than a year, and dating in middle age, it has to be said, is a bizarre experience.

So, is it appropriate to mention a scalded chin?  Well, I felt I had to clarify the situation in case he was sat opposite an angry, red rash creeping up my face, so a ‘beauty treatment’ was blamed for my strange appearance and he politely assured me that he hadn’t noticed.  Of course he hadn’t because he’d left his specs in the car.  He hadn’t managed to read the menu either and there was no way he’d deciphered the bill when it came because he can’t read a word of print without glasses.

There are glasses in every room in the house we now share, in the shed, both our cars and in my handbag.  Sometimes I catch him with a pair of glasses on his nose and another on the top of his head.