Tommy didn't go to college. He worked steadily at a customer service job, never topping $40,000 in salary. He wasn't tall and handsome. He exercised at the neighborhood Y, and because he didn't own a car, he biked to his job. And he wasn't Jewish, like me.
If I had seen his photo, or read his bio on Match or some other online dating site, I would've swiped passed him for someone with attributes more appealing or a background closer to mine.
Fortunately, in 1996, at 5 in the morning, when I was out walking my Golden Retriever Sasha, and Tommy was on his a.m. run, he regularly stopped to pet my dog. These chance meetings were the moments that stretched into a happy life for pet and me.
I'm sharing the story of our unusual romance and marriage because sheIter-in-place has upped loneliness for singles. I hear their excitement as their fingers land on a handsome or rich guy. I want to stop their shuffling through the suitors, with: "Those slick guys with glib bios and self-assured lists of their desired, younger match, will never make you happy!" But, of course, I don't.
Although Tommy was indeed the boy next door, I'm using him as a stand-in for all the nice guys that get ignored by women on the hunt. Handsome and rich appears to be the tags that friends seek when they're swiping their phones for fellas.
Pre-pandemic, to placate a friend who was urging me onto Match, I signed up for a three-month trial. Because I typed my true age -- 81 -- the pickings were slim. Well actually a bit paunchy. Two men reached out, both younger than I; one, sweet and homespun, the other city wise and complex. But I responded to each because they used the magic words, "I like what you said," or "you seem interesting."
I was honest in my small bio, leading with my tattoos and omitting "walks on the beach, fine dining, traveling to exotic places" and other classic desires that do nothing for me. I mentioned Amazon and Netflix, New York Times and Washington Post, early mornings, dogs. If that didn't cement the personality of a woman who preferred couches to castles, then I flunked at subtlety.
And as a widow, I was truthful in what I missed from marriage: someone to hold hands with, to walk with arms wrapped around waists, and the beaming look from a beloved when I returned home. Notice: no passion or hijinks.
Before house arrest, I met the two men -- one for lunch and the other for coffee -- and they were indeed fine fellows, but alas, not Tommy. In honesty, it's not only the non-resemblance that made me reluctant to pursue each; it's that I realized my hunger for companionship has lessened in the years since Tommy's death. And although my Match wish list seemed to imply something else, I understood I was dishonest in those words.
I had led the men on with my simple longing, but when I grasped there were compromises attached, I backed off. You see, I've changed in those seven years. In 1996, six years after my divorce from my first spouse, I was eager to be paired again. I missed in-laws, twosomes, family dinners, all the good stuff of a 30-year marriage.
Now, I've become quite unyielding in my daily preferences. I wake at 4 am and slumber at 8 p.m., which erases late night jazz clubs, evening theatre times, and 9 pm dinner reservations. Could I reconsider if the swain was sensational? I doubt it.
Also, after primping for my two Matches, and using my first-rate interview style to stimulate conversation, I realize the drill is exhausting and I'd rather stay home with doggie, watch TV with dinner on my lap, and clasp my pet for cuddling.
Actually, that scene describes evenings at home with Tommy, and that's likely why we were a most content couple whose arguments over our 14 years were as unusual as a solar eclipse.
Of course, before our wedding in Las Vegas and our sharing homes in three different places, I learned that Tommy and I had much more in common than my initial assessment: we were early risers, loved animals, enjoyed Masterpiece Theatre and The Andy Griffith Show, preferred evenings at home rather than going out, loved our circles of friends, and other similarities that lasted until his death in 2012.
So, before you swipe left or right, seeking perfection, consider that ordinary guy walking past you. A protective mask may hide your smile, but your wink and friendly wave could be the start of something lasting.