These dating failures began taking a toll on me. I was quickly losing confidence. I recalled my mother saying, “There is a cover for every pot.” My pot lacked one. I had to change course.

 I hate to make the initial contact, i.e., the girl calls the boy. Rejection could blast my ego right out of the water. But the Zotsky men that reached out to me were not what I was looking for. So, I put on my big-girl pants and started clicking on candidates. That’s when I saw David.

 I immediately noticed he was a nice Jewish boy with an advanced degree. Check. In his profile photo, he was dressed casually in khaki slacks and a pale-blue polo shirt. He looked nice. Clean. Check. He was leaning against a railing. Beyond was the sand and sea. His smile was genuine, not overdone, so I knew he’d posed for the shot without any agenda other than creating a memory. Using this picture on his profile told me he was serious about presenting himself honestly. He wasn’t trying to show off his muscles or some dead fish he’d caught. He wasn’t atop a Harley-Davidson motorcycle or crouched beside his beloved Corvette. Not an exciting photograph but telling– he looked safe. Intelligent. I sent him a heart emoji. (How bold was that?)

 I heard from David within one day. In my initial review of his profile, I did not notice that he was twelve years older than me. That gave me pause, but the relationship quality was making more sense at this point than the amount of time it might last. I surged ahead, full throttle. He and I communicated on Zotsky for a week before I gave him my email address and phone number. I prefer written communication, but most people like to use the phone. I’m always afraid I’ll hear or say something wrong. Besides, people always seem to call me when I’m in the middle of cooking or watching Jeopardy. So annoying! With the written word, you can see and edit what you want to say before the recipient reads it, and they can read it when they want. When you talk on the phone, it is what it is. 

Eventually, David and I spoke and chose a meeting point halfway between his hometown and mine. We each had an hour’s drive to get to the destination. The distance was an issue, but I was trying to stay positive. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

 It was a cool but beautiful Sunday afternoon. There was not much traffic, so I didn’t arrive for our first date frazzled by road-raged drivers. That happens a lot. I’d never dined at this restaurant, but it looked pleasant and laid back. People were sitting outside beneath Cinzano red-printed patio umbrellas, getting whatever last rays of warm sunshine New England had to offer before winter. When I entered the restaurant, there were quite a few diners at the hostess stand waiting to be seated. I tucked myself into a corner to wait for David. 

 Within one minute, I looked out into the parking lot and saw an older gentleman approaching the door. He walked with a slight forward tilt, head down. He was wearing khaki pants like the ones in his profile picture, and he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown, weathered-leather bomber jacket. He had lost much of the hair on the top of his head, and what remained was combed over. I immediately knew it was David. I was glad I’d worn casual clothing; a pair of black jeans, a black, long-sleeve cotton turtleneck, and my blue-denim dungaree jacket. David’s profile said he was 5’9,” but experience has taught me that we seniors often walk round-shouldered, thus eliminating a few inches from our height. David was no exception. I was happy I wore black flats instead of cowboy boots with the two-inch heels I’d initially selected. I would have been taller than David, and I’m uncomfortable with that. I knew he recognized me the moment he entered. He looked pleased and smiled. I was surprised by how happy his warm expression made me feel. We exchanged greetings, and he barely looked at me again until we were seated. My hunch was that he didn’t believe anything would come from this date. But David didn’t know me. I was determined to make this work.

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