Essay: Good For Me

I am 62 years old, single, and recently, after watching “Love Actually” for the 17th time — toxic though it may be — I downloaded a dating app and started the arduous process of vetting men so that I, too, might actually find love. Again.

After several online conversations, I agreed to meet someone. A light, romantic snow was falling, my hair was neither too short nor too long and I’d met a big writing deadline. I wasn’t exactly killing it like the gowned and bedazzled women in “The Golden Bachelor,” but I thought I could hold up my end of a glass-of-wine date.

I was able to hang on to that can-do attitude until I sat across from the man. It took a minute to locate him; his online photos were out of date five years ago, but I wrote it off. I get it, I dye my hair. We all get to be a little insecure.

After we exchanged hellos and the wine was served, I asked the question, “How has online dating been for you?”

“Oh,” he said, interested and willing to talk about his experience. He looked me square in the eye with a lovely open smile and said, “You know, I’m fit and healthy with a lucrative job. I thought I’d be dating much younger women.”

I hope you cringed when you read his response. I mean, he’d just broken the first rule of talking out loud: Know your audience. Public speaking guides aside, maybe you gasped at the hubris, the rudeness, the ageism or his cluelessness that his devaluation hit both of us.

I’ll tell you how I responded in a minute.

In the half-second of dead air before I replied, I thought, You should be so lucky to date me or any of my friends of the same age. Not because of our age, stage in life or accumulated wisdom — but because we, in some ways, like the man, have no idea how old we are.

We move through the world making decisions as we always have, based on time, money and values. I don’t think I’ve ever thought, Ann, you’re 62, no more “carpe diems” for you. Nor have I ever considered the age of a potential friend, collaborator or new acquaintance and wished them younger.

What is weird is that I wasn’t ready for his appraisal. I was surprised by the swat at my value. How had I not been ready for it, had my defenses up or charged my stun gun (just kidding)?

This cavalier assessment of a person’s value based on age is everywhere. When I go to the dentist and pick up a magazine featuring a top gun list of the latest 30-under-30 or 40-under-40, I’m reminded, Oh yeah. “Age and accomplishment” is a thing. The subtext urges readers to hurry and achieve because a finish line looms, and they are not talking about death as the ultimate “game over.” No, the endpoint they are referring to is whatever arbitrary age society deems us no longer interesting or notable. (Or, apparently, dateable.)

Sure, there are times when age is celebrated in the media. When a debut author or new entrepreneur is over 50, their success and age are highlighted. Check out this old person, they achieved something! The tone is a little too astonished, a little too congratulatory for my liking.

When aging comes up in our conversations, it’s all woe is me or good for you. Neither response is anything but reductive.

We should take a lesson from my neighbor, who shoveled her entire sidewalk while I wrote this. I bet she doesn’t have time for magazines at the dentist’s office. Her husband has advanced Parkinson’s and a leg bag that needs changing.

You might be thinking by now, no wonder you’re single. You’re prickly. What exactly would you like, Ann? I’ll tell you what I’d like. I’d like to be me, whoever I am, without my age being part of the conversation.

But subtle and not-so-subtle negative messaging is everywhere, and it isn’t just coming for me — it’s coming for all of us. It came for my date when he uploaded his vintage profile photos and called them current. It’s with my 27-year-old daughter, whose anti-aging skin care regimen for her blemish-free face would rival an aesthetician’s. She knows she’s aging and she’ll have to be ready with a comeback if she ever finds herself sitting across from a person who wishes she hadn’t lived so long.

This brings me back to my date and how I responded. To recap, he said, “You know, I’m fit and healthy with a lucrative job. I thought I’d be dating much younger women.”

I paused, looked at him and said, “And here you sit with someone your own age.”

His eyes went wide when he realized the error of his statement. “No, no,” he said, putting his full stop sign hand out. “Not you,” he said. “I don’t mean you!”

Then I pushed my chair back and said, “I don’t think you want to waste any more of your time here. You’re not getting any younger.”

Ha! I wish I’d said that. But I hadn’t been ready for a battle against all odds, ageist remarks and a replay of history. And that’s on me.

Instead, I pushed my chair back, stood, gave him a thin smile and walked away, congratulating myself for not getting the message; I had walked into a date sure I had value, even though I’d lived long enough to tell a few tales like this one.

Good for me.

Ann Garvin is the Madison-based bestselling author of five novels, including “There’s No Coming Back From This.” anngarvin.com

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