Dream Date or Dismal Disaster?

I’m sitting in a restaurant waiting patiently at my usual table by the entrance eager to meet yet another online date. It just happens to be table thirteen but what the heck. I’m the sort of person who’ll walk under ladders just to tempt fate. I’m really not having any luck with finding someone I click with as I never seem to get any further than the first date. It’s by no means easy for a woman over fifty, who’s fast becoming sceptical she’ll ever find the perfect match. I’m quite willing to make allowances for lifestyle and differences in interests etc. but won’t compromise on my personal pet-hates - smoking, tattoos and baldness. I’d never date anyone who didn’t have his own house and car and he would have to be totally solvent - I’ve had enough of church mice for one lifetime.

I’m well aware that being too selective diminishes the possibility of forging new relationships but I’ve got to the stage where I realise if I’d been more discerning in the past I wouldn’t be in this predicament now. Lousy marriage; no sex; no affection; husband I can’t get rid of. Say no more.

I’ve met a few men from several popular online sites and experienced several dating disasters. Meeting at a bar which had closed down and waiting at the wrong place entirely (nobody told me there were two McDonald's in town). I even embarrassed myself by going off with the wrong man who by some strange coincidence had the same name as my proposed date.

No-one I’ve met so far has made me feel as if I wanted to get to know them better. Does this say more about me or the men I’ve dated?

Still sitting at my table pondering my plight, I notice my usual gremlins have accompanied me once again when the fire alarm sounds in the restaurant. Staff whiz past checking for a non-existent conflagration but none of the diners seem unduly concerned and continue with their lunch.

I glance at my watch; my date is already ten minutes late. When he eventually arrives I’m more alarmed than the alarm. He’s a monstrous mountain of a man! As he lumbers through the door in a tatty rent-a-tent ‘T’ shirt, my heart sinks. Oh, no! What if someone I know sees us together? I inwardly cringe as I smile at him, ‘Very pleased to meet you.’ I’m really not but what else can I say?

Well, you should have done your research first - it’s your own silly fault, I tell myself but I couldn’t have known from the ‘head and shoulders’ picture he’d posted on his profile. Perhaps I should have requested a full-length photo but the ‘a little overweight’ box he’d ticked in his description made me think in terms of pounds not tons. I’m no twiggy myself and was more than willing to date someone slightly rotund but you do have your limits.

‘Where are the toilets?’ is the first thing he says to me.

‘Upstairs,’ I reply.

Now is my opportunity to escape! But no; he’s driven thirty miles to meet me and I couldn’t be that cruel. What if someone did that to me?

We chat over lunch (calorie-counted chicken salad selected by me). We discover we’ve very little in common anyway but what a complete waste of time. Why can’t people be honest about their size and post a full-length photo on their profile so prospective daters know exactly what to expect when they meet? If it’s a fat fellow you want then fair enough.

So it’s back to the dating site for me. Better luck tomorrow...

I’m at the same place again for lunch today. The staff will be suspicious of me by now - I’m in here with a different guy virtually every day. I should buy shares in the company.

This time my date looks half decent which is a good start. He’s snazzily dressed and even has a jag parked on the street outside. Nice one. We’re just getting acquainted when there’s an almighty furore at the next table. It appears the local care home for the mentally unstable is throwing a birthday party (and most of the plates by the sound of it).

Why me? I’m certain there’s some conspiracy or other to prevent me from meeting my Mr Right. It doesn’t seem like I’m ever going to have a real relationship at this rate but at least I can’t complain about the free lunches - although I do always offer to pay my own way.

He’s interesting - alleluia! That’s a first. He reveals he’s very much into dangerous sports and goes on to show me the various battle scars acquired over the years. It turns out there is more metal in his limbs than on the table in front of us. He gives me a lift home in his jag and I don’t hear from him again after that. He may have more metal parts than the bionic man but there's clearly no magnetism between us. He says he’s been married four times already so you have to be wary, don’t you? Henry the eighth's fifth wife would vouch for that.

I don’t hear back from Mr man mountain either which is a trifle disconcerting - if even he isn’t interested in me then there is no hope.

Maybe I say all the wrong things and come across as too overbearing but I’m no dolly bird or bimbo who sits pretty and lets a man take control. I’d just like a normal man (if there is such a thing) who’ll treat me as an equal but they always feel the need to be in charge of everything and get unnerved by intelligent women. I suspect most men want to programme a woman into their own way of thinking but I’m the ultimate rebel.

The celibate lifestyle isn’t one I’d have chosen for myself but maybe I should forget this dating lark and join a convent because getting nun seems to be my speciality.

Tomorrow lunchtime I think I’ll stay in and sulk.