One of my dear friends, divorced for eons, has just done something that I think is tremendously brave.
She went out on a date. 
And from what I understand, it went so well that a subsequent meal is planned. I’m ever so happy for her and, girlishly, look forward to the next report.
But the reason I think it brave is because I cannot even fathom going out on a date. First of all, I should think it might annoy Paul, and secondly, say if Paul and I went our separate ways after 24 years, the thought of entering the dating world is nothing less than terrifying. I’m quite sure I’d behave like one of those laboratory apes being released from their cages into the outside world for the first time, blinking at the sun and tentatively touching the grass with my feet, before turning to leap, shrieking, back into the hairy, supportive arms of my friends.
Just kidding. My friends’ arms really aren’t that supportive.
What does one even do on a date? Particularly at mid-life? Telling ones life story takes a lot longer time than when we were in our twenties and blithely chirped, ��Graduated from high school and am now studying journalism at College. That’s pretty much me!” And with texting, email, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter, not to mention potential drones, good luck trying to dodge a second date by lamely lying, “Oh, sorry, meant to get in touch but I lost your number…”
Dinner would be interrupted by the compulsion of snapping a photo of each course to document on-line with other people, comparing it to their own meager ‘Healthy Choice’ fare, and personally, for me, as an early riser to begin barn chores, I fear that, unless my date was utterly riveting, I would feel my eyelids grow heavy around 8:45 while secretly yearning I’d stayed home to watch the latest episode of ‘Miranda’ (seriously, if you haven’t streamed that from the UK, you simply must. She’s taller than me and ten times funnier).
And, horrors, what do you do after the date? If you go out for lunch, you can probably get away with a warm handshake and a peck on the cheek if it went well, but if it was dinner and drinks, oh Law, and he moves in for a kiss, how do you position yourself into a shadow so as not to draw attention to the crepiness of your neck? Would he, like Rhett Butler, tossing away Scarlett’s work-callused hand after realizing she’d been toiling in the fields to save Tara, look at mine in horror and accuse me of being a common laborer?
I wouldn’t even know what to wear. I have no clue to what’s in fashion. ‘Mom’ jeans are still out and the low rise pants seem still stubbornly to remain in style, despite the fact that they make most womens’ hips and bellies appear as if they’d just busted open a can of biscuits (yes, I’ve used that joke before, but it’s a good one). If I wear a skirt, what is the cut-off point between school ‘marm’ and the Whore of Babylon? And if I wear a skirt, then I have to wear heels, making me 6’ 4,” and resulting in my date stealing furtive glances at my adam’s apple throughout the evening.
No, it’s just too exhausting to even consider. If Paul and I do ever break up, I shall probably remain on my own, along with my menagerie of cats, dogs, horses, and the occasional rescued flying squirrel and field rat and we’ll all live quite cozily together. However, I must admit, there is one man out there that I would have everything in common…he’s an Olympic Equestrian, European, tall, blonde, gorgeous…
-Pam Stone