Looking for Lively and Energetic, Not an Age-Mate. Fifty is Just Not the Same A 55-Year-Old Gentleman Lied About His Age and His Waistline, Yet Took Offence When He Learned the Womans Real Age
Im after a woman no older than forty-two. Thats my absolute limit. And thats only if she can pass for thirty-five. At fifty, its just not the same, Tom. I want someone lively and energetic, not someone my own age.
Me? I may not be Hugh Grant, but I still feel twenty-eight on the inside. Besides, men only get better with age, but women well, you know how it is.
My friend Linda and I sat at the next table, unwilling spectators to this monologue. Wed popped in for a quick bite after our evening walk, chatting about the latest health craze, when our conversation was hijacked by the mans self-important commentary.
Did you hear that? Linda whispered, suppressing a snort. Hes up for grabs, apparently. More like a bargain bin clearance if you ask me.
Shh, I grinned. Lets hear him out. This is better than the theatre.
The performance continued:
Ill tell you somethingfor principle, I dont eat leftovers. My lady should cook fresh every day. Of course, while Im on my own, Ill make myself beans on toastdont need fuss. But in a relationship? Thats serious business: Sunday roasts, proper puddings, homemade bakes. And she must be slim, mind you. I like the contrast: Im solid, shes dainty.
And children? asked his mate carefully, side-eyeing the solid one. Youve got grown ones already, wont be long before you have grandkids.
I dont need any more heirs. Enough to go round as it is. Im after a companionfor the soul, you know, and the rest. Someone up for hiking, camping, even a trip to the countryside.
I nearly choked on my juice. Hiking? The only long walk hes done is down to the local off-licence.
Linds, I bet hell try to chat me up, I whispered, winking.
Youre joking? Lindas eyes widened. Vera, youre not even forty.
Hush, I tapped my lips. This is a social experiment. I want to see just how deep a mans delusion can run.
Sure enough, he approached me soon enough. We exchanged details and, by that evening, were messaging as if wed known each other ages.
Online, he went by Macho48.
His profile photo was a relic: sucked-in gut, flashy car in the background, a smouldering look.
A few days later, George suggested we meet.
He arrived in his best suit. The buttons strained over the very solid middle hed acquired since his profile picture days.
Veronica, he beamed, showing not the whitest set of teeth. You look stunning tonight.
Thank you, George, I replied modestly. You clean up quite well yourself.
We met a few more times.
It became an acting exercise for me. I listened with a straight face to tales of his business empire (a market stall), the nearly new car (opted to reinvest instead), and the importance of a cosy home.
We strolled in the parkhe was out of breath after a hundred yards, but insisted it was a special breathing technique.
Then the big moment arrived.
George, loosened by a good meal and my flattery, decided it was time to confess.
Veronica, you really do tick all the boxes. Slim, clever, youthful. By the way I should admit something. Im not actually forty-eight.
Really? I raised an eyebrow. So how old are you?
Fifty-five, he sighed, waiting anxiously for my response. But Ive aged well, right?
Of course, George! I replied brightly. Fifty-four at most! I like men with experiencemeans theyve got a bit of sense.
He practically glowed with pride.
Brilliant. I was worried, you know. I have my standards: no women over forty-two. The energys just not the same. Youre a sparklike a real girl.
Thank you, love, I stroked his balding head. Incidentally, I have a little confession of my own.
Oh? he braced himself. Kids? Debts?
No, nothing like that. My age.
He stiffened slightly.
What do you mean? Youre not forty?
Almost.
Thirty-eight? he ventured, hopefully.
I reached into my bag and handed him my passport.
Open it, George. See for yourself.
He took it, hands trembling, peered at the date of birth and did a silent sum in his head.
1975.
Fifty he gasped. Youre fifty?
Exactly so. Had my jubilee two months ago.
His hand slipped, and the passport fell. He stared as if Id just transformed into the Wicked Witch of the West.
But how? You look
Like a woman who takes care of herself, George. Not one who lives on pasties.
Thats deception! he exclaimed. I told you, up to forty-twos my rule. I cant date a woman my own age.
Im not your age, actually. And you didnt notice a thing, did you? Did you hear sand trickling out of my shoes?
George flushed deep red.
Its the number he muttered. Fiftynearly a pensioner.
Old age, George, is when you cant cope with reality anymore, I replied evenly, standing up. Im right in my prime. And you know, Ive realised something, too.
Whats that? he peered at me with faded blue eyes.
That at fifty, I need a man. Not a bundle of hang-ups, a belly, and a market stall. You wont last with my fire. Youd burn out the minute you tried to keep up.
I reclaimed my passport and walked towards the door.
Vera! he called after me. Wait! What about us?
What about us? I turned back. By your own rules, were the same age. But you want someone younger. Good luck finding someone whose eyesight doesnt match her birth certificate.
I left his granny-ish little flat and took a deep breath of fresh, free air.
Linda was waiting for me in the car.
Well? she asked as I got in. Did he come clean?
Oh, did he ever, I laughed. Especially when I showed him my passport. You shouldve seen his face. Like someone just told him the Earths round.
And how did it all end?
Oh, hell keep looking for his young thing and drive himself mad. Meanwhile, were off to celebrate. Ive a proper date tonight. Hes forty-five and frankly doesnt give a toss what it says on my passport.
And George? Hes still scouring the dating sites. Updated his profile, too: Looking for a woman strictly under 40. Must be honest! Still the same decade-old photo, obviously.
You know, it makes me wonderwhy are some men so afraid of women their own age? Is it worth lying about your age for a relationship, or is honesty the best first step?
Because when alls said and done, real connection comes not from the birthday written in your passport, but the spark in your soul and the truth in your heart.
