One of the downsides of quitting alcohol is you need alternative ways to numb a runaway, pathologically overactive brain — like mine. Back in the glory days of imbibing the amber-hued nectar of the gods, my “off” switch was a double, or seven, of Lynchburg, Tennessee’s finest.
Nowadays, I rely on trash television to achieve the same state of mindless bliss. And this is how I came across Netflix’s The Later Daters, a reality show about finding love after 55.
I’m at that stage in my life where most friends, acquaintances and family members are veterans of the matrimony wars. After the obligatory year or two of wound-licking, many return to the dating trenches, scanning a barren landscape for companionship. As someone who is still in the trenches of matrimony, my role is mostly about sympathy, condescending advice and occasional matchmaking.
One battle-weary friend, fresh from a bruising divorce, recently stopped me mid-sentence with a palm to my face. She asked if I would accept advice about reintegrating into society from someone who hadn’t just been released from Pollsmoor. When I shook my head, she pressed her palm to her lips in the universal “So zip it” gesture.
The human Ziploc was right. Let me confess that I was thinking about setting her up with another recently divorced friend. That friend’s response when I confessed my foolhardy thinking to him? “That makes as much sense as two 40% mathematics 101 students becoming study partners in the hope that together they will attain 80%.” (Okay, okay. Sheesh! I was trying to help!)
I think I get it. The stories I hear paint a scary picture about dating in one’s forties, fifties and older. Folks seem to be wading waist-deep in crocodile- and piranha-infested sewers without pants, leeches clinging to their groins. According to my mathematics analogy friend, desperation has created quasi-Tinder alleys, even inside professional networking platforms such as LinkedIn. He has deactivated X, Facebook and Instagram, and now uses LinkedIn strictly for business.
What makes things even trickier is that he’s no longer searching for a relationship that is headed for the altar; he seeks only ‘mature, long-term stable companionship’.
What makes things even trickier is that he’s no longer searching for a relationship that is headed for the altar; he seeks only “mature, long-term stable companionship”. When I ask how he meets potential partners, he replies, “I’ve gone back to 1990s-style ‘macking’. I chat up random people at OR Tambo airport, on the Gautrain, in the Dis-Chem queue at Rosebank Mall — any safe environment where I can initiate innocuous small talk.”
I cannot help but laugh. 1990s-style dating required strict adherence to the heteronormative social code: the male initiates all contact. Men my age will probably relate to this next hypothetical situation. The year is 1991. You board a minibus taxi to Mthatha at the South Coast/Eastern Cape taxi rank. By luck or misfortune, the most beautiful girl in the world sits next to you. Your heartbeat spikes to 360bpm, your tongue clings to your palate and your hands go clammy. You rack whatever is left of your brain for something funny, sweet or profound to say, but your vocabulary has deserted you.
The taxi driver is also working against you, because after what seems like 10 minutes you see a signpost: Port Shepstone 32km. Two minutes later, you look up and see the next one: Port Edward 8km. The Toyota Hiace has clearly morphed into a Shanghai Maglev bullet train, because at this rate you’ll reach Mthatha in roughly 56 minutes, before anything smart comes to mind. Finally, something tumbles out: “Sjoe! The ocean is full to the brim today, isn’t it?”
She gives you a perplexed look with clear brown eyes, and you feel compelled to explain, “I guess it’s all the rains we’ve had in recent times.” Silence in the taxi. She shrugs and looks away. The two young boys seated behind you snigger surreptitiously. Your words are still echoing in your mind, and you chastise yourself internally. “Really, guy? The ocean is overflowing because of rain?”
Of course, this is only hypothetical. But if it ever happened, grace must be extended to any 19-year-old navigating the terror of first encounters. And it’s exactly why I’m grateful to avoid leech-infested rivers sans trousers or awkward attempts to impress a brown-eyed woman by remarking that the ocean seems to be overflowing because of recent rains, just to break the ice.
And I would hate to experience the regret the young man in my hypothetical story might have experienced when the brown-eyed girl disembarked in Queenstown, giving him a sweet smile and a wave goodbye as she slid the taxi door shut.
