Andersen - Were not sixteen anymore: a baby boomers adventures with online dating

2016 Becky Andersen

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Published in the United States by WriteLife Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

www.writelife.com

978-1-60808-156-1 (p)

978-1-60808-157-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931147

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Ellis Dixon, www.ellisdixon.com

I dedicate this book to whoever invented cyber-dating;

to loved ones everywhere who encourage someone to live life to its fullest;

and especially to my beloved family and friends.

Table of Contents

I never, ever thought I would be doing something at age sixty that I had last done at age sixteen. Every other activity I used to do when younger has gradually morphed from ease and enjoyment to discomfort and embarrassment.

Case in point: When I was in my teens, I could hardly wait my turn to jump on a trampoline! I could easily scramble up and on to the bed of the trampoline. Sometimes, if there was a small audience I wanted to impress, Id grab the metal base and somersault over the springs onto it. When I was recently at my daughter Alyssas house, her three-year-old son begged me to climb on board his trampoline and bounce with him. Like any loving grandmother, I complied. It took a few minutes to realize my teen agility was non-existent, then another fifteen minutes to find a small stepstool that I could use to climb up, but then I was set.

MoMo, bounce me! my little Tristan yelled. What fun this would be for both of us, I thought! I gathered myself for a giant leap to send him, bent my knees, and shot upward, probably all of two inches. I discovered very quickly that while some parts of my body did lift up a bit, other parts of my body obeyed the laws of gravity and stayed put. Lets just say I will never again drink any liquids if and when I get back on a trampoline.

That should have taught me that I am not sixteen anymore. For really physical activities, I have become very aware of that. But the real epiphany came to me one day when I found myself speeding to the mall. I always speeda little bitwhen I go to the mall to shop. I might miss some big bargain if I dawdle. This time, though, I wasnt on my way for any big bargain. When I thought of what I was about to do, my stomach felt like it had on the trampoline, and I slowed down and almost turned around. I was shaky, nervous, and totally scared to death. I was about to do something else besides jumping on a trampoline that I hadnt done since my teen years: I was on my way to meet a date. Only this time the date wasnt someone Id had a crush on in high school. This date was due to the twenty-first centurys technological advances: it had come about through online dating. Emotionally, I was still twentieth century.

In the 1950s and 1960s, my dad worked for a company that frequently transferred him to a different part of the state. There were also times we needed a bigger house as the family grew. Sometimes that involved a move to a different school district within the city. So for most of my primary education, I never went to one school two years in a row. I was the new girl every year. The new girl named Becky Button and there was always someone in the class who smirked at my name.

When I was sixteen, my family moved from the second-largest city in Iowa back to my parents small hometown. I wanted to stay put. At sixteen, I wasnt given a choice. I was devastated. It was one thing to come to visit my grandparents and other relatives, but quite another to actually live there.

But by the time school started in the fall, Id had a change of heart and was determined to make a good first impression in order to get friends. There was one good thing being back in the familys hometown: I wouldnt have to worry about my name being made fun of. There were lots of Button relatives who went to school there. So I spent quite some time picking out my new clothes to wear that first day. Finally I was comfortable with how I looked, at least until I got to school. One thing my new town didnt have, I discovered, was a school with air conditioning. New school clothes were designed for cool autumn days, but in Iowa, those days dont usually occur until the middle or end of September. My first day of junior year at the high school, and I was a miserable and sweaty mess.

Had I ever had more than one year to cultivate a boyfriend relationship with someone, it would have had to be with someone quite mature for his age and who had great foresight. Someone who could have looked at the new girl and seen beyond the weight (perfect for a girl five feet ten, when I was only five feet four) and who was attracted to the hair color called dishwater blonde. Someone who could ignore the gap between my front teetha gap big enough to stick a straw through and still be able to smileand who thought thick-lensed glasses made my dull hazel eyes shine. Now I was going to be in one place for two years. I felt hopeless. Then a miracle occurred.

Mother Nature took pity on meor else it was the exercise and hectic pace of the activity-driven lifestyle that comes with being in everything small-town schools offerbut by my senior year, I had thinned down to an appropriate weight for my height. I also got contact lenses, and dyed my dishwater blonde hair with hair color. And a few boys developed an interest in me.

I dated five different boys in high school. My younger siblings found that their oldest sisters forays into the world of dating opened up a whole new avenue of teasing. Whenever a date picked me up or dropped me off, my little brothers and sisters would spy on me. More often than not, my embarrassed date and I, standing at the door to say good night, would hear smooching sounds accompanied by giggles and snickers. Id erupt in Type A fury and go storming into the house, hollering to my parents, Those brats are driving me crazy! and leave my poor date to disappear quietly into the night. Maybe thats why I averaged only one date apiece with four of those five boys.

But the fifth boy was the one. He was the 1971 senior class president, a brown-eyed, dimple-cheeked young man with curly dark hair, and he made me laugh. He adored me, and I adored him in return. I married Harold Beaman just a few weeks before I turned twenty-one, and for thirty-seven years, we lived a life full of fun and laughter with our two daughters, Brooke and Alyssa. I had a job I loved at the local private college, Simpson College, in Indianola. The girls grew up to be fantastic young women, and Harold had his dream cabin in southern Iowa where he would hunt, fish, and just relax. Everything was perfect until our life together was abruptly cut short by his unexpected and sudden death when he was only fifty-seven.

All of this flashed through my mind as I was driving to meet this date. It had been over forty years since Id dated. I had no idea what had possessed me to let myself get signed up on a dating website. Now I was about to meet a total stranger, even though wed been paired up through the magic of cyber-psychoanalytical facts. Dating at age sixty?