Someone’s gotta…

Cruise Ship

The site of the future cruise’ing life for me, with my grey-haired lady posse and a few decades from now.

WARNING: This post contains mature content, suitable for women over the age of 50 ONLY. Males, read at your own risk. Sons, brothers and nephews… you might want to skip this one and come back next week for a more appropriate post.

“Someone’s gotta die!”

Uh… yah… that was me, last Saturday night, at the dinner table of my new Haligonian BFF, Heather.

First of all, it’s not what you think, and second of all, no one died. Also, I did say it after our second (maybe third) bottle of wine, so either I’d had too much to drink or I had a point. I forget. But I do remember it happened during our discussion on the care and feeding of a SWO50+ (single woman over 50). Us.

Both newbies to Halifax, we were whining wine’ing the night away, swapping notes on how we kept our single selves busy … yoga, running, Netflix, sleeping, library, Project Friend (that’d be me)…

We concurred that finding things to do was definitely easier during the week. The weekends? Well, let’s just say the ever-increasing Groundhog-day moments of staring in the mirror Saturday mornings, garbling through toothpaste foam, “What, you again?” was taking its toll.

As problem solvers, and more importantly, Aquarians, we saw two plausible solutions. The first, obviously, was to hightail it back to coupledom, while the other was to round up a new SWO50+ posse.

Both had their complications.

Okay, re-coupling. I can’t say this excites me, at least not at this time.

Let’s start with the 21st century fact that the only way to meet someone is online. My philosophy to online dating is this: Just Say No.

I’ve heard the date stories, and frankly, none of them end well. The other thing, of course, is that I finally know what I want, which is a banana, and bananas my age are mostly married, not trolling online. (NOTE: If you missed my banana man rant,  have a peek back to my 23 bananas blog.)

But listen, just for fun, let’s say that something miraculous occurs, and I meet a single banana—the natural way. Well that would just lead to another problem… something I don’t think I’m gonna be able to handle, like, ever.

It’s…. Getting. Naked.

Trust that the prospect of doffing clothes with someone who doesn’t have a past visual to conjur when gravity worked for, not against me, is terrifying because, indeed, a boob can fall off your chest and into your armpit with little or no warning. Even if I could get past the naked part, say by turning off all the lights and putting tinfoil on the windows to prevent any outside light leakage (I’m talking FULL blackout here), what about the getting clothes on afterward? Getting dressed now requires tucking things in that are actually a part of your body. And listen, you gotta have the lights on to stick those bits where they belong.

Nuff said on the coupledom option.

So, the posse. Heather and I both agreed weekends are the toughest to repopulate. See, when you go from married to single, though you lose the couples, you do retain the wives, but Monday to Thursday only. Friday to Monday are for coupledom.

Considering neither of us have leftover wives from our married lives in Halifax anyway, this is a non-starter. And breaking into Halifax coupledom to snag a Monday to Thursday wife gang—it’s challenging.

So I’m pondering this, when I remember a successful posse rebuild from years ago.

A friend of mine, Frank, missed the first marriage go round, and by his mid-30s was bemoaning his dilemma. As each of his buddies married, he was allowed to see them during the week and the odd weekend, but that dribbled away when the kids arrived. He got so despondent, he put together a dating profile to see about coupling up himself. It probably might have gone better if he hadn’t posted a photo of himself from a guys’ fishing weekend, holding up a fish. But, whatever. Anyway, before he got too deep into the wife search, a weird thing happened.

“Yah,” he said to me one day on the phone, “Petie and his wife just split up. We’ve been going out all the time now. It’s real sad—real sad—but he’s back, and I don’t care how he got here, I’m just happy I got him back.”

The man was giddy. At that time, we combined our 30’ish single selves with the newly divorced, and hello, posse’d up once again.

Remembering this made me a bit happy. Really, re-posse’ing might simply be an exercise in patience. All we had to do now was wait for split ups. But then, I thought about something… My 50’ish married friends are either happily married, and if they aren’t, they’ve spent enough time with me to have decided that a bad marriage may be bad, but it’s a sight better, financially and socially, than being single. There’re going the distance.

Cold, hard fact—getting a new gal-pal posse might be doomed. There will be no divorce frenzy this time around, so realistically, the only way the Friday to Monday wives might swing back my way was one way only… and… um… it would be on the other side of the “til death do they part” thing.

O.M.G.

That is the moment I pounded my fist on the dinner table and screamed out my Oprah ah-ha moment of enlightenment: Someone’s gotta die!

I fancy myself to be a bit the comedian. Not only had I bumbled upon a new truth, but my Eureka! got us a lot of laughs  last Saturday night and a whole different topic to explore.

Anyway, by the end of the evening (and the whine wine), we’d found out all kinds of things we shared in common…. Singing, traveling, wanting to own a B&B one day, hiking, not to mention the concept of buying a house with a platonic friend because life is a lot easier sharing the load.

Hmmm… this Project Friend thing. It might be working out okay, and weekends might be a little more interesting with new BFF Heather in my world.

This morning, I was running along the Harbourfront, just as swaths of the cutest ever grey hair’d ladies were coming off the cruise ships. I started imagining myself walking off one of the ships, years from now, with my own old lady posse. I imagined myself with a cool short shag, like Carol on Walking Dead. Yah, more than a couple decades to go yet, but that’s okay, cuz I need to figure out how to save a ton of money, so I can do cruising and other stuff with my grey-lady posse, later on.

Until then, here’s to long lives and natural causes for everyone. Heather, dinner at my house next weekend?

PS If you like my story telling and don’t want to miss a thing, click the little box on the bottom right of the page that says “follow.” Type in your email address and click Okay/Enter (I forget which!). You will get an email sent asking you to confirm. I promise… you will only get an email when I post, which is about once a week. Also… feel free to share on FaceBook or Twitter. Thanks and talk to you next week!


4 thoughts on “Someone’s gotta…

  1. I’ve seen groups of white haired elderly ladies traveling together wearing purple hats. The first time I thought they were crazy. After a few more run-ins I decided I definitely want to be one. In about 40 years.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Well it’s Saturday morning. Latte in hand and reading your blog. Heading to Home Hardware shortly to pick up supplies for my wood pile and stove, then groceries and back home to work around the house on my day off. And talk to myself….I mean the cats. Ahhh the life of a SWO50+. Same ole, same ole…EXCEPT…I’ll see you, my new Haligonian BFF, for dinner and laughs at your place later, wine in hand. I’d rather hang out with you than go thru the online dating sites, which I just tried again !! Lasted 3 weeks and deleted my profile due to the sleaziness, sliminess and lack of intelligence on them. Single life after 50 is not so bad after all if you have at least 1 other in your posse.

    Like

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