​​​​​​Because humor is funnier when you know it's true.

The dating app I really need

My Aunt Meg always had a loving man in her life. When my Uncle Benny died, she soon re-married. When that husband eventually passed on, another man turned up enjoyed her company. It was easy to see why. She was engaging, wise and sympathetic, and always great fun to talk with. 

And she was always upbeat.  In her 80s and (temporarily) single, she had to move into an assisted living facility, but her take on it was anything but glum. “I love this place!” she told me. “I’ve made lots of new friends. There‘s a dining room so I don‘t have to cook. I even have a new boyfriend -- and he‘s gay!” 

“Your boyfriend is gay?”

“When you hit your 80s,“  she explained, “all that ‘sex stuff‘” isn’t as important as it used to be. “We watch PBS and go for walks and have great conversations. And he can still drive, so we go to the symphony together!”

I had to admit that sounded pretty good.   

Especially when, this past summer, I learned that my own boyfriend, a man I’d loved and trusted for the past twenty years, had a secret girlfriend on the side for the last ten.  

Which means?  I’m single again at age 62.  And I’m starting to think about online dating. 

“Don’t bother!” some friends tell me. “If you look for love online, you’ll find nothing but heartache. They’re all liars and creeps.” But other pals assure me that there’s someone out there just for me. “You’ll find Mr. Right,” they assure me, “and live happily ever after.”

Perhaps. On the other hand, I was thinking about Aunt Meg the other day and I suddenly realized that I had another option.  I could follow her lead and find a gay boyfriend! Or rather, a gay best friend. 

Several of my pals have gay best friends who, they tell me, are loving and affectionate and lots of fun. Men they can trust and confide in, and kibitz with about relationships and pop culture and office politics,  and who never pester them for sex when they’re not in the mood. (Or, for that matter, ever.)