Dead Fish, Double Chins, and Bait & Tackle: Adventures in Dating at 58
Or: Why I’d Rather Ride a Horse Than a Harley with a Guy Named Steve
Recently, I saw a media request from The Times asking to hear from straight women experiencing heterofatalism — a term I had to Google. It basically means you’re straight, you keep dating men, and every time you do, a tiny part of your soul wants to crawl under the bed with a weighted blanket and a glass of wine.
Well, I didn’t just experience it. I live it.
After a 20-year marriage to a covert narcissist, I thought dating again would feel like liberation. But no — it’s more like an obstacle course of emotional booby traps, awkward dinners, and unsolicited references to bait and tackle.
Meanwhile, my ex? Has had a woman at his side the entire time — during the separation, through the divorce, and now he’s dating a 40 year old public-facing principal with a shiny résumé and a 13-year-old, just like our kid. Apparently, dating after 50 is very manageable... for men. Especially men who lack things like accountability, spiritual grounding, or — dare I say it — a God compass.
Women like me? We get Facebook Dating.
My Adventures in Modern Dating: A Field Report from the Frontlines
I’ve tried It’s Just Lunch. Spoiler alert: It’s Just Trauma.
One guy made me pay for my own dinner. No shame. Just passed the check right over — and we were at one of the best farm-to-table bistros in Houston. They grow their own greens, make their own mozzarella. He ordered a pizza, ate one slice, then took the rest home. When he got up to use the restroom, I took a slice just for the hell of it.
One was 58 and wanted more kids. I told him to go to church or visit a Pilates studio — that’s where the single women are who might be open to that.
One wasn’t over his wife — who, ironically, was the one who signed him up for the dating service. He clearly wasn’t interested in dating. Didn’t walk me to my car, didn’t follow up, just treated the date like a sad checkbox.
The one promising date I had ghosted me completely. Like POOF, vanished. Not even a courtesy “thanks for coming out.”
And Facebook Dating? Oh lord. It’s a mix of:
Dead deer
Dead fish
Double chins
Beer cans
Trucks, motorcycles, boats
Selfies taken from below the chin (why???)
Crotch shots
Belt buckles large enough to roast a turkey on
I’ve received marriage proposals. I’ve gotten “get your passport ready” messages from men wanting to fly me to Dallas. I’m convinced it’s the dopamine and Chardonnay talking. I imagine them drinking late at night, staring at my profile, and hitting send with all the bravado of a cowboy on a bull.
Sometimes I feel like Leanne Morgan, just laughing out loud at my phone while blocking anyone who looks lecherous or dangerous. And that’s most of them.
Every other guy seems to be looking for someone to drive their golf cart, heat up frozen pizza, and never challenge them spiritually or emotionally. And if you do bring depth to the table — like, say, you’re a Pilates instructor who helps women reclaim their power, heal trauma through fascia, breath, and movement — well, then you’re “weird.”
I had one man tell me that to my face. I said I wanted to make the world a better place, and he called me weird. Meanwhile, he spent 20 minutes talking about his bait and tackle. (And yes, that was also from It’s Just Lunch. Someone should be screening these guys.)
Oh, and the high school classmate who drove all the way to my farm? Stayed in one of my Airbnb cabins, had a great conversation, and kept suggesting I “come over.” I told him, “Sorry, I’m checking on my 80-year-old mom up the hill.” There’s a fine line between memory lane and “No thanks.”
Honestly, dating in your late 50s with two teenagers at home is like trying to host a yoga class during a hurricane. You’re calm. You’re grounded. You’ve done the work. And everyone else is throwing chairs.
But here’s the good news: I’m not bitter. I’m just baffled. And amused. And very clear on what I’m no longer available for.
So if heterofatalism is the trauma of trying — over and over again — to connect with men who don’t know how to emotionally show up, then yes. I qualify. And I have the stories, screenshots, and expired dating profiles to prove it.
Until then, I’ll be over here teaching Pilates, drinking sparkling water, raising teens, and rebuilding my life with women who show up, horses who trust and follow, and students who actually say thank you.
Because unlike most of the men I’ve met lately — at least the horse knows where he’s going.
And Yet… Maybe There’s Hope?
I do have a date coming up in two weeks. I know — shocking. But this one seems different. He’s grounded. He’s honest. He’s polite. And he’s got God at the center of his life. He checks out. He’s a professional. And yes — he’s a little younger, so I’m cautious. But he’s saying all the right things.
So I’ll check back in with y’all. Because honestly, I may have broken the mold. I don’t fit the dating app stereotype. I’m not looking for a shopping partner or someone to drag to a concert. I hate concerts. I don’t like shopping. I’d rather sit on my back porch and watch my horses graze than go on another bad date.
But who knows — maybe this time it won’t be a disaster. Maybe this time, someone will see me — all of me — and say, “She’s not weird. She’s wonderful.”
Stay tuned. And until then:
Shoulders back, inner thighs like best friends, TA fired. Let’s ride.
Follow the journey:
Instagram: @pilatescowgirl
Studios: The Good Space Pilates | ElmwoodPlaceTX.com
Email: pilatescowgirl@gmail.com
