Kate Mulvey, a delusional 50-ish malcontent, professional writer who chronicles her dwindling mid-life sex appeal, thinks she deserves “better.” (The Telegraph registration/pay-wall, sorry)
A couple of years ago, I too joined an expensive matchmaking agency. I had just come out of a seven year relationship, and was on the wrong side of 50.
I soon tired of online dating and receiving messages from over weight baldies who peppered their emails with childish emojis. I hankered to find Mr Right-for-me, a man who was suitably educated and a successful professional.
And so this is how I found myself, throwing money (my entire savings to be precise) to an upmarket matchmaking agency in central London. The agency claimed to filter out the undesirables, the mediocre and give clients the personal touch, so I handed over the hefty sum of £6,000.
Apparently, in times of loneliness (and sexual frustration), there can be no accounting for stupidity and willingness to part with one’s own money.
Mulvey continues to elaborate a bigger and deeper hole into which tumbles her credibility.
As I waited to be matched with someone from their ‘extensive database’, I idly imagined my handsome date, cashmere polo neck, a bit academic and kind. We’d eat steak tartare and swap notes on our latest clever box-set find and favourite novels.
How is it that “responsible, mature and modern” women so helplessly defer to pipe dreams and rainbow-romance? How can their perception become so skewed as to almost be non-existent?
Harsh truth-time, Ms. Mulvey.
In the grand dance of mankind’s evolutionary gender dynamic (fuck all that gender -relative, -neutral bullshit…it’s an affectation of a diseased and complacent modern culture), age is a ruthless disqualification for the female interloper. The institution of marriage provides a security nest for men and women alike since people are not genetically groomed to contend with the mating market once they enter their 50’s and beyond.
With today’s perversely elongated lifespans, there is burgeoning swath of developed society that has no choice. I can appreciate this. What I cannot appreciate, however, is the fantastical belief, to be found in both genders, that we “deserve” a fictionally laced dream. And least of all, the entitled condescension that ensues.
When I met him [prospective agency match] at a pub in Richmond, I was shocked. I was expecting a cultured and dynamic man, instead I got a man in a pair of jeans, a moth eaten jumper and the table manners of a modern day Baldrick. … The thing I found most unnerving though was not being allowed to see what my date looked like, let alone have a pre-date chat with them before we met. All so important if you are to get a feel of someone.
It wasn’t too much of a surprise then that they rarely got it right. For the next few months, I dated up and down the eligibility scale. Some men were pleasant but dull, others who said they wanted to be in a relationship but were burdened with so much baggage they were toxic.
Uh yeah, that’s life.
It’s called dating, it’s called being patient – most of all, it is not feeling entitled to a fairy tale relationship simply because your’re old and single. There are no promises in life.
It is a tough time for midlife dating today, and there are a lot vulnerable educated women like me who are so desperate for love they are willing to try anything whatever the price. Yet, the quality of men were, I no different to those on online dating sites.
I learnt the hard way, but my advice when it comes to dating is: trust your instinct and meet through friends of friends.
It is bound to be more accurate. Oh, and it is free.
Reality is a bitter pill, isn’t it?
The dating market for those who are over 50 is so dystopic and corrupted that these desperate people are well-advised to foment traditional styles of meeting people, not online meat markets. Even those that cater to “quality mid-lifers” which ultimately are scams exploiting old economy desperation in a new economy arena.
A little Sunday night tidbit greeted me earlier. It regards the Seth Rich case.
Personally, I’ve found the mysterious death of Seth Rich in July, 2016, a little troublesome, peculiar, even dubious. But the conspiratorial momentum of many events and deaths surrounding political figures since the Age of Chaos began during the run-up to the Presidential election that year is simply too hyperbolic and convenient and it strains the limits of my analytical thinking. I consider myself very skeptical in all matters relating to narrative convenience which easily combine all streams of occurrence into a single tidy plot line which explains everything we need to know behind the devious machinations which we are biased toward favoring.
That said, I believe there is a lot of smoke surrounding the Seth Rich forest fire. I don’t enjoy using trite aphorisms, but I feel there is nothing that fits the Rich murder better than “where there’s smoke…”
In case you missed it, last Sunday, Matt Couch, everyone’s favorite Seth Rich conjurer and investigator, maligned by the leftist press, but intriguing to the cynical right, Tweeted a very curious announcement.
BREAKING: Two High Profile Level Washington D.C. Elites were at the Hospital at almost the same time, or within minutes of Seth Rich’s arrival via ambulance.
We’re giving these people one week to come forward, before we name them.
Rich, who was shot in the opening hours of Sunday, July 10, 2016, was transported to the hospital by EMT’s about 5 in the morning, an hour before he died on the operating table.
Why would a high-ranking Democratic official (much less two of them) be at the mysterious hospital (which was not publicly disclosed until last year) moments after the young, mortally-wounded DNC employee was rushed in suffering two gunshot wounds to the back. What business does anyone have at a hospital at that hour unless they are visiting, or to “attending” to a patient?
And who were these people? Today, we found out. According to Couch, they were:
America First Media has brought forth new findings in their investigation into the 2016 homicide of DNC employee Seth Rich. An inside source with knowledge of what occurred at the hospital on the early morning of July 10, 2016 has revealed former DNC Chairperson Donna Brazile and DC Mayor Muriel Bowser arrived shortly after EMTs had delivered the injured victim for emergency treatment of two gunshot wounds to the torso.
The investigation now reveals the unexpected presence of the two prominent DC political figures shortly after the victim’s arrival at the hospital. Investigator and founder of America First Media, Matt Couch, had publicly issued a one week window, withholding these findings, in the hopes one or both of the women would reach out to the team for discussion as to their unexpected presence where the victim would come to pass. Neither woman responded to Couch’s offer.
These developments bring further questions without answers to the murder case which has been shrouded in secrecy for the past two years. Why were two high profile political figures at the hospital in the early morning hours? Who advised them of the shooting so soon after it occurred? Was Seth Rich more than the mid-level employee he had been made out to be by the media and the DNC?
Now we wait. Will this information seep into our collective vision or will it remain fragmented and marginalized by the rantings of a mainstream press which appears too willing to shrug this narrative off as some sort of manic conspiracy while failing to address legitimate conjecture?
I had a friend back in the late 80’s, early 90’s, his name was Joe.
Not sure if we were really friends in the real spirit of the word so much as we just enjoyed getting drunk and straddling the disreputable thin line of life and impending death by misadventure. We tempted fate more times than I care to count.
I hung out with Joe. He was a few years my junior and in some ways, I was his depraved mentor, guiding him on the shining future path of dissolution. In other words, I bought all his booze in that period up through his 21st birthday. I was the contributor to his delinquency but the dude was a million light years ahead of me in the category of street smarts. He was a tough ghetto monster who would have no problem pile-driving me into the concrete if he felt so impelled.
We essentially hung out every weekend.
We visited malls, events, bars, pedestrian areas, bars, parties, etc, whatever it is most other quasi-friends with a penchant for self-destruction like to do.
I like to think when I spend a significant amount of time on the throne. I think, and think and think. I don’t have a smart phone, refuse to own one, so I’m uncharacteristically self-contained and pensive when there is not a television or computer in front of me (which certainly qualifies when on the throne).
Sitting there, “businessing,” I was reminded of Joe and one excursion we made to a local mall somewhere east of L.A. I have no idea or remembrance of which mall, or which year, but it was one of those typical 80’s malls with 4 or so large department stores (ie, Broadway, JC Penney, Sears) and we were strolling around, Joe and I, doing our typical dead-end shopping which involved a whole lot of checking out chicks and a whole lot of smack-talking but very little buying. There was a moment I needed to use the restroom very badly so I ran into a department store’s tucked away stalls in a bathroom most likely sitting near the customer service desk where they wrapped gifts and processed exchanges.
I walked into a stall and was greeted by a vile image brewing in the toilet water.
Someone had left a large couple of logs, typical looking shit logs. Typical brownish, speckled coloring, about yay number of inches, tip to tip. The unflushed spectacle was not shocking in the respect that this is the typical trashy behavior witnessed in public restrooms all the time.
People leave shit, piss, vomit, everything, behind, un-disposed. There is no conscientious attention to clean-up whatsoever. Anyway, the “typicalness” of the shit abruptly came to an end when I saw that one of the logs had split in half, most likely from sitting in the water too long. And while the log was the standard shit brown color on the visible surface, the interior, exposed, was a crimson bloody crust of malignant rust. The log literally disguised the fermenting bloody mess suffusing the interior of the stool. I was so disgusted I ran to another stall quickly.
Someone’s shit was hiding a bloody mess; and did they even know what horrible omen lurked out of sight within the guts of their stool?
I contemplated this faceless guy walking around the mall, happily voided of that big dump, rudely left behind, satisfied, perhaps unaware that deep in his guts deadly units of blood were secreting into the colon or abdomen. Absorbed revealingly into this digestive formations. That was probably about 30 years ago and as I sat on the throne this morning, I wondered when, or if, that person died.