It started to become clear the previous April, when a man who had been pursuing me canceled a dinner at the last minute. There was a scheduling mix-up with his son’s game. I understood. I’m a hockey mom; I get it. Still, I went. I wore what I would have worn anyway. I took the table. I ordered well. And I watched the room.
Only two tables nearby seemed to hold actual dates. The rest were groups of women, or women alone, each one occupying her space with quiet confidence. No shrinking. No waiting. No apologizing.
That night marked something. Not a heartbreak, but an unveiling. A sense that what I’d been experiencing wasn’t just personal misalignment. It was something broader. Cultural. A slow vanishing of presence.
I’m 54. I’ve been dating since the mid-80s, been married, been a mother, gotten divorced, had many relationships long and short. I remember when part of heterosexual male culture involved showing up with a woman to signal something — status, success, desirability. Women were once signifiers of value, even to other men. It wasn’t always healthy, but it meant that men had to show up and put in some effort.
That dynamic has quietly collapsed. We have moved into an era where many men no longer seek women to impress other men or to connect across difference. They perform elsewhere. Alone. They’ve filtered us out.
I recently experienced a flicker of possibility. With James. We met on Raya, the dating app. There was something mutual from the start — wordplay, emotional precision, a tone that felt attuned. It was brief, but it caught light. I remember saying to him, “Even fleeting connections matter, when they’re mutual and lit from the inside.” I meant it.
There was just enough spark to wonder what might unfold. Enough curiosity to imagine a doorway. But he didn’t step through it. Not with a plan. Not with presence. He hovered — flirting, retreating, offering warmth but no direction.
What the Jesus-tapdancing-Christ is this tripe?
Dating has always confused me. If this takes a half-hour, it’s likely not right. It isn’t about wordplay … it’s a gut reaction. Mind you, I can engage in wordplay, but the spark, that sense that you’ve always known each other … throw out the calendar.
You. Fucking. Know.
I actually texted my ex tonight. This is usually months apart, and here it was as well. But I went out (yay, me!) to a weekly burner meetup, and there’s my ex’s Doppelgaenger, equally tatted, blue hair, gesticulating as said ex did. So I sent a pic. I hate talking to Babe, but there was no one else who could understand what had happened at 23.00 CT.
Nothing happened. The woman who I’m doting on a bit too much and I didn’t even talk this week. She was engaged in her sketchbook, and I didn’t want to be a dick and see her exasperatedly put down what she was working on. I’d seen this from the middle distance, and we’d talked last week. Oddly, she doesn’t just look like my ex – she espouses what I enjoyed in terms of interaction: brusque and disinterested, if polite.
And while my ex and I had what could charitably be called an “oh fuck” moment after the divorce in 2016, it has been quite the journey. Have we fucked over the years since? Well, yes.
I don’t need to approve her new choices, nor does she mine. You can’t hate someone you don’t love, and we eventually came to this timeless realization. There was a lot of hate. See prior reference.
Which to a certain extent I think is about insecurity. We both thought we were done with having to look when we met, but this turned out not to be the case. Fuck, we thought we were done with each other. And yet she kept the name and still wears my wedding collar (no, not what you’re thinking – it was far more substantial and required a lot of collaboration to pull off for the day of the wedding after an absurdly huge steel portion showed up from the blacksmith first go 'round).
We are done, but … that doesn’t mean she’s gone. The number of times I wanted to set her to blocked is in the high three-figures. I just can’t. Oh, sure, I try to come up with rationalizations, and I’m not thrilled with having to tell someone new, “So, you should know Mrs. Powderhorn is still out there.”
Our phone conversations are oddly binary. Either we’re talking like we’re back in bed, or it’s scorched Earth. I think both of us resent that it didn’t work.
So this woman at the warehouse? She won’t ever realise (let alone care about) the extent to which a nice-looking counter-culture punk chick is actually alarming because I know where this goes via personality.
Tangentially related, back in 1999, I picked up a copy of the Vancouver Sun, as I was wont to do, and there’s a photo of me around A6 (I know it was an even page), except it wasn’t me. The Canadian girlfriend (yes, they exist) looked at what had caused my reaction and didn’t quite need a fainting couch, though I can’t see her saying “no” to one.
“Waiter!”
Perhaps the most jarring thing about the now-nearly-decade-ago divorce is that we operate in two states. When we’re working together, all is well.