My friend Greta informs me that I am going about Internet dating the wrong way.
“You are far too serious and picky!” She believes I should stop looking for love and rather look for a way to enhance my social life.
I begin to protest and then think that a monthly book club meeting, or the annual – if I can’t get out of it – parents teachers meeting does not exactly qualify me as a “happening” person. I am a bit shy … at times.
Some people don’t get my sense of humour and invariably it happens in the wrong company
I’ll be meeting a friend at a restaurant and say ‘FUCK’ loudly and the closest table in the restaurant will be a Bible study group. I just have a knack of putting my foot in it.
So yes, Sage Greta says I must lower my standards: she says I should join the local gym or walking club.
Secretly the idea repels me
I am not attractive in my baggy sweaty gym clothes at the best of times. Sans make-up and sporting a grimace, I just can’t see how I would meet the man of my dreams at the gym.
But, ever the optimist, I stalk the facebook page of the local ramblers club and I see the average age is 60 plus. The sad thing is they can outwalk me any day. Usually after four aisles in the supermarket I am starting to huff and puff.
Greta has done the dating thing on the Internet several times and she always seems to meet someone. I need to qualify this and say … none of them would be my choice.
Greta ignores all the blah blah and says, “Ooh, he looks hot!”
I scrutinise their age, occupation, and marital status, area of residence and then I send a brief but witty message to check their IQ.
Those who reply with a lame one-liner are eliminated even if their pecs are impressive
I know I am soooo fussy, but anyone who uploads a photograph of themselves, in which the arm of their previous paramour is hacked off in a bad crop, is lacking in basic intelligence.
Greta’s current love interest was found at the local music club. An eclectic place and to be fair the music can be good at times. But it seems like the available men are from wanted posters.
Ageing hippies and balding accountants rub shoulders in the boerewors queue
My gut feel tells me that I am not going to find a suitable match here. I suspect my hormones are dead – and need resurrection. Not even a vague flutter in the stomach when surveying the options.
Annie, my other friend, urges me to consider HRT therapy to boost my libido. I look at her and say: “HRT will not make me blind and stupid enough to bonk any of the blokes I’ve seen”
Annie, my other friend, urges me to consider HRT therapy to boost my libido. I look at her and say: “HRT will not make me blind and stupid enough to bonk any of the blokes I’ve seen.”
She rolls her eyes. I did expect some sympathy from my women friends regarding my dating disaster, but I seem to amuse them.
So I am forced to persevere with the Internet dating.
Greg and Cheri are both urging me to find a date
Greg’s criteria is very simple – a guy with lots of money. Cheri says after some thought, “Anyone that is NOT like Dad.”
Strelitzia Sunshine is menopausal, mad and was ditched by her ex who married the dog trainer. Read her diary entries in ‘Mad days with Strelitzia Sunshine’ www.strelitziasunshine.blogspot.com