I spent two months taking a 56-year-old woman out to restaurants. But the moment I invited her over to my place, the lady instantly dropped the mask.
Five years ago, I got divorced without much drama, got used to my simple bachelor routine, but recently I realized that coming home alone to an empty apartment still feels unbearable.
I’m 56 years old, I’m still in good health, and I haven’t run out of strength yet. I signed up on a dating site, hoping to find a decent woman for a life together. And I did find one, or so it seemed to me in those first days of общения.
It was a perfectly ordinary profile with the words:
“Tatyana, 56, widow, looking for a respectable man for a serious relationship.”
In the photo was a pleasant-looking woman without any extra pretension, with kind eyes. We started messaging on the site pretty quickly. I told her right away that I wasn’t interested in exchanging messages for years, that I was looking for a real woman to build a life with, someone to share everyday life with and go on vacations together. She agreed with the way I saw things, and the very next weekend we met in the city center.
The first date went wonderfully. We walked for a long time, and the weather was nice. She spoke enthusiastically about her job and her grandchildren. I listened attentively and nodded. I really liked that she was calm and didn’t chatter nonstop. I invited her to a café, and of course I paid. I’m an old-school kind of man and I believe that if a man invites a lady out, then he should be the one paying.
Then our classic “flowers-and-candy” period began. Only I was the one consistently buying the flowers and candy, while we both spent the time. Every Friday and Saturday we had a full cultural program. I’m not stingy at all, but if I now calculate how much those two months of active “courtship” cost me, it makes me a little uneasy.
We went to the theater, and afterward we would always go to a restaurant. And that was our schedule every week. One time we’d go to an exhibition of stone-carving art, another time to a concert, another time we’d head out of town to a recreation center just to take a walk and have a hearty lunch in the fresh air.
I always behaved like a real gentleman, thinking that we were gradually growing closer. She smiled sweetly, took my arm when we walked outside, and said:
“Grisha, it’s so interesting spending time with you. You’re such a gallant gentleman.”
Of course, that flattered me.
Alarm bells in the back row of the movie theater
Now, looking back on those weeks, I clearly realize that everything was already obvious from the way she behaved.
First of all, she never invited me to her home. Not once, not even for a simple cup of tea. There were always excuses: “Oh, it’s a mess there right now,” “My little granddaughter is visiting today,” “I’m so tired after work, let’s just sit in a café instead.”
At first I thought she was simply very shy. A lonely woman may have gotten out of the habit of having a man who is basically a stranger in her home. I didn’t push myself on her and just waited for the right moment.
Secondly, she constantly talked about our age, but in a very strange way. When it came to entertainment, long trips, and restaurants, she was incredibly youthful and energetic. She happily suggested going to Kazan for the weekend and visiting a water park there. But the moment I tried to steer the conversation toward something more personal or physical, she instantly turned into a grumbling old grandmother.
One time we were sitting in the very last row of a movie theater. The film was unbelievably boring, and I gently put my hand on her knee. I just placed my palm there, I wasn’t pinching her and I wasn’t trying to go under her skirt. She carefully but very firmly moved my hand away.
“Grisha, people around us are watching.”
“Tan, the theater is completely dark, and there’s nobody anywhere near us.”
“I don’t care, it looks very improper. We’re not schoolchildren.”
At the time, I chalked that behavior up to her strict upbringing. I thought maybe she really was such a modest, chaste lady, and those boundaries needed to be respected. But a nasty little worm of doubt had already started gnawing at me from the inside. We really aren’t schoolchildren. We’re pushing sixty. Objectively, we don’t have that much free time left to spend months playing wounded, untouchable prudes.
And she also loved talking about all her various ailments. At that age, everyone has a bad back or blood pressure problems, that’s just normal life. But she did it with a kind of masochistic pleasure. She could spend an entire dinner talking about the stabbing pain in her lower back or which cholesterol pills worked best.
I listened carefully, sincerely sympathized, and offered to take her to a good doctor. But when I happened to mention that I go swimming twice a week to stay in shape, she grimaced in disgust.
“Why do you need all that physical activity? You’ll only wear your heart out. At our age, you should be lying on the couch reading smart books, not swimming in chlorine.”
But I have absolutely no desire to lie on the couch day and night. I want a full life.
…continued in the first comment.
I spent two months taking a 56-year-old woman out to restaurants. But the moment I invited her to my place, she instantly dropped the mask.
Five years ago, I got divorced without any drama, got used to a simple bachelor life, but recently I decided that coming back alone to an empty apartment was, after all, pretty miserable.
I am 56 years old, still in good health, and I have not lost my strength yet. I signed up on a dating site, hoping to find a normal woman for a life together. And I did find one, or so it seemed to me in the first days of our общения.
It was a perfectly ordinary profile that said:
“Tatyana, 56, widow, looking for a decent man for a serious relationship.”
In the photo, she looked like a pleasant woman, without any unnecessary pretension, with kind eyes. We started chatting on the site pretty quickly. I immediately said that I was not prepared to spend years in endless correspondence and that I was looking for a real woman for real life, someone to share everyday life with and go on vacations together. She agreed with my way of thinking, and we met downtown the following weekend.
The first date went very well. We walked for a long time, and the weather was nice. She talked enthusiastically about her job and her grandchildren. I listened attentively and nodded. I really liked that she was calm and did not chatter nonstop. I invited her to a café, and we sat there, on my tab of course. I am old-school and believe that if a man invites a lady, he should pay.
Then our classic “courtship period” began. The only difference was that I was the one steadily buying the candy and flowers, while both of us spent the time. Every Friday and Saturday we had a full cultural program. I am not a stingy person at all, but if I now calculate how much those two months of active “courting” cost me, it feels a little unsettling.
We went to the theater and then, without fail, to a restaurant afterward. That was our schedule every week. One time we would go to a stone-carving art exhibition, another time to a concert, or we would drive out of town to a resort area just to take a walk and have a hearty lunch in the fresh air.
I always behaved like a true gentleman and thought we were gradually getting closer. She smiled sweetly, took my arm while we walked, and said:
“Grisha, it’s so interesting spending time with you, you’re such a gallant gentleman.”
Of course, that flattered me.
Warning bells in the back row of the movie theater
Now, looking back on those weeks, I clearly realize that her behavior had made everything obvious from the start.
First, she never invited me to her home. Not once, not even for a simple cup of tea. There were always excuses: “Oh, it’s messy at my place right now,” “My little granddaughter is staying over today,” “I’m so tired after work, let’s just sit in a café instead.”
At first I thought she was simply very shy. A single woman may well have grown unaccustomed to having an unrelated man in her home. I did not push and simply waited for the right moment.
Second, she constantly talked about our age, but in a very strange way. When it came to entertainment, long trips, and restaurants, she was incredibly young and energetic. She happily suggested going to Kazan for the weekend and visiting a water park there. But the moment I tried to steer the conversation toward anything more personal or physical, she instantly turned into a grumbling old grandmother.
One day we were sitting in the very back row of a movie theater. The film was unbelievably boring, and I gently put my hand on her knee. I just rested my palm there, I was not pinching her or reaching under her skirt. Very calmly, but very firmly, she moved my hand away.
“Grisha, people are watching.”
“Tanya, it’s completely dark in here, and there’s no one near us.”
“I don’t care, it looks very improper. We’re not schoolkids.”
At the time, I chalked it up to strict upbringing. I thought maybe she really was that modest and that I had to respect those boundaries. But an ugly little worm of doubt had already begun gnawing at me from the inside. We really are not schoolchildren, we are pushing sixty. Objectively, we do not have that much free time left to spend months playing wounded prudes.
And she also loved talking about her many ailments. At this age, everyone has back pain or blood pressure problems; that is normal. But she spoke about it with some kind of masochistic relish. She could spend an entire dinner describing how her lower back was shooting with pain or which cholesterol pills worked best.
I listened attentively, genuinely sympathized, and offered to take her to a good doctor. But when I casually mentioned that I go to the pool twice a week to keep in shape, she curled her lip in disgust.
“Why do you need all that physical exertion? You’ll just wear your heart out. At our age, we should lie on the couch and read smart books, not swim in chlorine.”
But I have no desire to lie on a couch all day long. I want a full life.
The moment of truth and sudden lectures about shame
And yesterday the logical ending of this dragged-out play finally came. I firmly decided that enough was enough. Two months is more than enough time to understand whether we suit each other for life together.
We had a hearty dinner at a Georgian restaurant, ate delicious khinkali, and drank a bottle of good wine. We were both in a great mood. She laughed loudly and told funny stories about a colleague from work. I looked at her and thought that here, in front of me, sat a normal woman, and there was no reason for us to keep dragging things out.
We left the restaurant and got into my car. It was drizzling outside, the cabin was warm, and pleasant music played softly. I turned toward her and gently took her hand. This time, she did not pull it away.
“Tanya, maybe we could go to my place now. Sit in peace and quiet, have some tea, listen to music.”
She tensed up all over instantly. Her sweet smile vanished without a trace, and her face became completely stone-like and чужим.
“Grisha, what exactly are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you directly. I like you very much. I am a free man, you are a free woman. We’ve been seeing each other for more than two months. It seems perfectly logical to me that we would want to become much closer.”
And at that very moment she launched into an epic tirade about age, shame, and higher spirituality that left me dumbfounded.
“Do you even understand what you’re saying?” she said in a stern tone, like a schoolteacher. “That kind of thing is only for young people and for having children. What do we old people need it for? It sounds ridiculous and absurd. Just imagine how awful we would look without clothes. I’ve got sagging folds here, you’ve got a belly sticking out there. It’s simply disgusting. At our age, one should seek only spiritual kinship, practical support, and strong friendship. But all you think about is that one thing, like some primitive animal.”
I sat there listening to this verbal diarrhea and could hardly believe what was happening. So I was a filthy animal simply because I desired the woman I had been courting for more than eight weeks.
“Tanya, wait a second. What sticking-out belly? I go to the gym regularly. My male physiology is absolutely fine. And your figure is excellent for your age. Why are you burying yourself alive? Who told you that at fifty-six life is completely over and all that remains is your so-called spiritual kinship?”
“That’s simply how things are generally accepted!” she snapped. “Decent women of my respectable age babysit grandchildren and plant tomatoes in the garden beds, not jump into dirty strangers’ beds. I would be unbearably ashamed in front of my grown children if I took up with a man for those kinds of things.”
At that exact moment I finally snapped. I told her everything that had built up over those weeks.
“So you didn’t take up with a man for life at all! For two whole months you ate delicious meals on my dime, rode around comfortably in my car, and went to expensive theaters. For some reason, you felt no shame accepting gifts from that same ‘animal’ and letting me silently pay for all your cultural whims. That, apparently, fits perfectly into your concept of spiritual kinship. But the moment I wanted normal human closeness, suddenly it became ‘eww.’”
She blushed deeply, but clearly not from shame. It was from rising anger.
“So now you’re reproaching me over a piece of eaten bread? I thought you were generous and a real man, but you turned out to be petty. So all this time you were just trying to buy me, is that it? Because you paid for dinners, I’m supposed to throw myself into your arms the moment you demand it?”
“Don’t twist the facts,” I said as calmly as I could, though inside I was boiling with indignation. “I wasn’t buying you. I was courting you properly. But any normal courtship implies some logical development and some kind of result. As it turns out, you were just looking for a convenient girlfriend, only with a fat wallet and a personal car.”
She shot out of my car like a bullet, slamming the door so hard I worried about the side window. I did not run after her or try to sort anything out. Everything between us had already been said with complete clarity. I just watched her stride proudly toward her building entrance and felt resentment toward myself.
I have nothing against spirituality and long conversations. I love heartfelt talks, good books, and history. But I am a living man, and while I still have physical strength and normal desire, I am not going to write myself off as a eunuch just because some Tatyana has ironclad complexes in her head about her age-related folds.
I deleted her number right there in the parking lot, and I deleted my profile from the dating site too. I need a little time to recover from that circus.
But I have firmly decided one thing: next time I will ask about attitudes toward intimacy right on the first date. If I hear another lecture about “approaching old age,” “grandchildren as the only meaning of life,” and “it’s already too late for us,” I will simply ask the waiter to split the bill and say goodbye right away.
What do you think? Am I right in this situation, or is suggesting intimacy to a decent woman at fifty-six really some terrible insult? And why do women like that even sign up on dating sites if they sincerely believe their time has long since passed?
