In the realm of online dating, I made the ill-advised decision to fib about my age on Tinder, which has now led to the rather uncomfortable situation of me, a woman experiencing menopause, wrapped around a slumbering millennial with no inkling of my deception.
My dear friend Helen, who feels that everyone over the age of 50 lies about their age on such platforms and insists that I do not appear to be 53, is partially to blame for this predicament. Though I hold a deep affection for Helen as my best friend, we couldn’t be more different.
“You deserve a bit of excitement in your life, Shanti; you’ve been through so much,” she encouraged. Her words resonated with me, but the idea of presenting myself as a sprightly 42-year-old was nothing short of foolishness on my part. Frankly, I wasn’t thinking clearly at all.
In a rather inebriated state, fueled by bottom-shelf rosé and exquisite cheese, I decided to join Tinder under the influence. Helen’s tales of delightful dates involving tapas, Spanish wine, picturesque beach houses, and hikes at sunset had enchanted me. Oh, how I wish I had discovered the golden dating algorithm she was blessed with and engraved it on a monument for posterity.
Unfortunately, my own experiences on the platform were less than desirable, a parade of socially inept individuals and commitment-phobes. That dating app seemed to attract individuals clad in fur riding unicycles at Burning Man, or bros at the gym flaunting their muscles and posing with showgirls from Las Vegas or freshly caught marlins. Who decided that lifeless fish equate to attractiveness? And don’t even get me started on the scourge of bathroom selfies. It’s utterly repulsive.
Just as I was about to delete Tinder for good, a profile emerged from the depths of my dating cesspool like a phoenix. “Josh. Single. Chef. San Francisco. 38.” Three months into our budding routine of morning escapades, tea, toast, showers, and coffee, we found ourselves lounging lazily in bed on a Sunday morning, when suddenly, the honeymoon phase collided with an iceberg.
“You haven’t had your period since we met. What’s going on?” His words struck me with an ominous uncertainty.
I rolled over, feigning sleep, attempting to devise a distraction through further intimacy or toasted bread. He enjoys both tremendously.
“You don’t think you’re pregn-”
A clever web of secrecy has shielded his millennial eyes from my hormonal transformation, the plucking of unwanted hair within the confines of locked doors, and my adeptness at steering conversations away from topics that may expose my true age, all while indulging in foreplay or discussions about craft beer. The sweating can be dismissed as a consequence of summertime, and my aversion to visiting Ikea for a lighter comforter can easily be chalked up to a case of claustrophobia induced by the store’s atmosphere, not to mention the tantalizing scent of cinnamon buns.
However, Josh is fully awake now, charging at full speed like a tenacious Sherlock Holmes. “How about more toast?” I resort to offering him my most convincing distraction.
Alas, he remains unresponsive, slipping into a realm of contemplation, meticulously piecing together the evidence of my bloated stomach, absence of periods, fatigue, and ravenous appetite.
Little does he know, pregnancy is the furthest thing from my reality.
In a state of dismay, he succumbs to his glazed-over gaze, drifting slowly into a dreamy realm filled with the prospect of fatherhood. Meanwhile, I’m confined to the bed, nestled amidst his armpit hair, trapped between a lukewarm cup of coffee and a falsehood I’m not prepared to confess just yet. Our relationship has only just started, and I’m blissfully floating on a cloud of intimate encounters, caffeine, and pillow talk. Besides, he’s so youthful that he hasn’t even begun to snore.
Though it may sound exhilarating, maintaining this Tinder deception has proven to be more exhausting than the extensive lovemaking we engage in. If it weren’t for Helen’s intervention, I would contently curl up in bed with my cat, binge-watching Virgin River on my iPad, sipping pinot noir, and snacking on stale cheese puffs. What’s wrong with that?
Before things escalate further, I must disclose the truth to him. I must rip off the metaphorical Band-Aid, regardless of the panic it may induce and the profuse sweating that accompanies such anxiety. It’s challenging to maintain a composed facade when one’s face is beet red and drenched in perspiration. Oh, the perils of perspiration. Certainly, he may decide to end our relationship, but on the positive side, a new season of Virgin River has recently been released, not to mention the immense bag of cheese puffs I’ve stashed under the bed. My cat, being a cat, will likely remain utterly indifferent, as expected.
Well, the fun was fleeting. With a racing heart and clammy palms, I blurted out the truth, “I’m 52!”
“What?” Josh responds, bewildered.
“I am 52 years old, Josh. There, I said it. 52.”
He still looks perplexed. And understandably so. I’ve just dropped a bombshell from the realm of utter madness.
“But aren’t you 53?”
What on Earth?!
“You were born in 1969, right? That would make you 53.”
Now he thinks I’m not just a liar, but also terrible at arithmetic.
As it turns out, Josh already knew my real age thanks to the wonders of Google. “Obviously, Shanti, I looked it up.”
“And you thought I might be pregnant at 53?”
“Menopause slipped my mind, and I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
Having never dated anyone near his own age, Josh hadn’t encountered the symptoms of menopause before.
Lucky him. Sometimes, I hardly know what to expect from one day to the next.
Ultimately, we part ways on good terms, “consciously uncoupling” and remaining friends (with occasional benefits) until Josh secures a job and moves to LA.
For three months, he went along with my foolish charade. He never had an issue with my age; it was my own insecurities, self-doubts, and shame surrounding my maturing body that plagued me. What was I so afraid of? That he would witness the authentic me, in all my midlife splendor, and run for the hills? He had already seen the true me (minus the chin hair), and he embraced it wholeheartedly. It was me who was retreating, evading my true self.
Before his departure to LA, Josh made me vow never to lie about my age again, and I wholeheartedly agreed. Though I occasionally ponder shaving off a few years in moments of weakness, on the whole, I am learning to embrace the joys of midlife, one hot flash at a time.
Have I learned my lesson? Undoubtedly.
Did I binge-watch the latest season of Virgin River while devouring an entire bag of cheese puffs? Absolutely.
Will I ever lie about my age on Tinder again? No, unequivocally.
Is my cat thrilled to have me back, all to himself? I don’t believe he even noticed my absence.
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