Unhinged: I thought dating apps would make dating after 60 easier. I was wrong.

Well, I tried. I’ve been single for several years. It’s complicated, not a clean-cut arrangement: my ex and I still care for each other, but still . . . he’s been dating and has a new love. And that’s okay. We are better friends than lovers.

I thought I’d venture out for a get-together or two with someone of the opposite sex after months of being completely content on my own. Just to check out the scene. 

I am happy to be a solo pilot, which is a selling point. I am done with kids, work, being partnered. My old dog died. I support myself. I like my own space and time. I am attractive still, I am told. People don’t even say “for your age.” I cannot get pregnant. I have my own money, my own house. 

I am not looking for a soulmate or long-term relationship. Maybe dinner out or doing fun things together, and a little cuddle. No commitment needed or expected. Am I not a perfect candidate for someone out there?

I have been warned, by friends, cohorts, social media, overheard conversations, of the pitfalls of dating apps. I’ve been out dancing, to parties, clubs (although I get tired by 10 p.m.), group dinners, readings, concerts. I’ve been friendly to strangers: I try and flirt. Nothing seems to work. It used to be so easy to socialize before the internet. Back then, I met people on trains, street corners, at work, in classes, through friends, as roommates, at parties . . . it wasn’t that hard.

Well, of course, I AM a bit older, halfway through my sixth decade. But it seems entirely acceptable to be dating (I hate that word) at this juncture in time. All those older women / younger men tropes and movies have made it popular. I definitely get the sense younger guys are curious, after a twenty-three-year-old cab driver asked me out. (No!) Age gaps are not shameful. I don’t have to act like my mom and put my love life behind me. I might live another twenty years. And at this point, I can move most of my body parts without wincing. 

As far as the apps, I think I know how to be safe and avoid gaslighters. I’ve raised teenage boys to men. I know all the gross stuff men are capable of. I know about letting friends know where I am and not meeting for drinks at night in a dark alley, et cetera. I’ve been schooled by friends and I’ve read how to go about it on the web. 

I think I’m ready.

I decided to sign up. I was encouraged by one fearless friend who is on several apps to do it. She is enjoying the single/divorced life greatly and has dated a variety of people. She reassured me: I would be a big hit. Of course, I want to believe that.

First stop: Match.com

Feeling out of my element, I took the step and started with one called Match. (Forget Silver Singles, we might as well be trading burial plot spaces.) Match seemed to be the most widely used, and not for just hookups per se. 

I loaded several selfies onto the site. Not of me at a younger age, not sexy, but of me looking attractive (I know how to pose). I mean if I put a picture of me waking up in the morning, it would be frightening, unlike my perfect twenty-one-year-old niece who looks like Gisele Bündchen at all times. 

I was also semi-honest on my profile. Except I chose a nickname as my moniker. What if I ran into a client or one of my son’s friends online? I described myself: Caring, funny, liberal, likes thrift stores, have a cat, volunteer, into casual dating. I even put “city person” to thwart off any Alaska fishermen. I did not add that I have no domestic skills whatsoever, love drag shows and do not like hiking. For age ranges, I put forty to sixty-eight. I have no preferences as to height or religion (except no hardcore Christians). Oh yes, gender interested in: male. 

Ready, set, go. I chose the cheapest plan. I’m not sinking a credit card payment for three months into this experience.

Within two hours, I had prospects. Well, prospects of a certain kind. Older men—late sixties, seventies and beyond—holding fish or cocktails, on boats, in sailboats, playing golf, eating. Guys who looked one foot in the grave, guys who were desperately lonely and seeking someone to care for them. Plenty of guys with no hair, but that’s to be expected. Guys with suspiciously white perfect teeth. Guys from as far as Alaska and Canada, although I indicated the greater metropolitan area. The majority did not understand how to take a selfie. A few had reflective sunglasses on (that’s a no), and a few had photos of the lower parts of their head, not the top. Poor lighting figured into many, who appeared serial killer-ish when they probably were not. 

I also ruled out guys who had pictures of themselves shirtless or in bed (horrifying!), and I personally dislike really long gray beards, the kind that look slightly satanic. I also am not turned on by guys holding huge fish. (Is there a correlation with genital size?)

I guess that makes me picky.

Still, there were two or three who piqued my interest after they had indicated they “liked” me and sent me a “rose” (apparently that costs money). One was an artistic-seeming fellow, widowed and a social worker. “Social worker”  always rings my bell because I know they have to ascribe to the code of ethics and are mandatory reporters. Therefore, they cannot be too sinister, right? 

Then a couple of guys who were world travelers as well as interesting dressers, and seemed more metropolitan. Museums, galleries, that sort of thing. Guys Black, East Indian, white, Native, Asian. Bankers, techies, retirees. Jews, gentiles, Buddhists, agnostics, and the “spiritual not religious” (me). I had some okay chats online; one guy implored me to visit Canada. 

However, after a week I could see this was going nowhere. Most of the respondents were older than what I was seeking and seemed well into retirement and retreat mode and were seeking a nursemaid type or a “special lady.” Except the fisher guys, who wanted to stay on their boats and fish with a “good woman.” Did I mention most of the men were sports maniacs?

With my interests and fashion sense I’d be better off on a gay men’s dating site, except I am neither male nor gay. But I would probably be a lot more compatible with the guys on one of those apps.

I was ready to be done with the app game when I watched the inauguration of Zohran Mamdani. His gorgeous cultured edgy wife was in attendance. The coolest couple in the world. The newscaster mentioned they met on Hinge. Hinge? Was that an alternative to this one? Maybe a little more contemporary? I may be old, but I’m not dead yet. 

I can try Hinge.

Were Harold and Maude Ahead of their time?

Again, I put age parameters at forty-five to sixty-eight (if you go over sixty-eight you start getting the creaky guys). Forty-five would be too young, but I wanted to create a wide swath. I used some of the same pics, this time in cooler clothes. No revealing things, not that I wear them anyway. I used most of the same descriptors again, and said I was interested in “casual dating.” I guess that’s the euphemism. I am not looking for a soulmate or life partner. 

Okay, with Hinge I could see I was in more familiar territory. Now there were the guys with cats and hair! There were still the same athletic guys, but these were super jocks—scaling mountains, cliff diving, running, on motorcycles, with testosterone turned up to one hundred. (The Match guys were at about 25 percent.) There were, relievedly, few fish trophy pics, though many more shirtless guys pumping in the gym. They know better having grown up on social media, than the older guys, how to take a decent picture of themselves. 

The stats were skewed younger; a lot of the guys who “liked” my pics were in the twenty to thirty range. Good God Gertrude, I cannot. They could be my sons.

I did admire the shirtless men, but know full well that’s not my thing. Some of them looked like Michelangelo’s David. I never see that sort of guy in real life. It felt mildly pornographic for me to even look at those glistening pecs. I am jiggly and wiggly and not firm, and I don’t like working out. I do not have a lifted arse, bubble butt or anything they would seek, despite the fact that plenty of them, like amped-up bulls, were sending me messages. I am a woman of a certain age. It’s a whole new thing, this grandma fetish guys seem to have now. Harold and Maude were onto something. 

You may want to read: Why Older Women Are Increasingly Dating Younger Men

Four Dates and No Wedding

My type, should I have one, is intellectual, funny, maybe geeky, not perfect-looking but without the long goat beard that I detest. Limited hair okay. Cuddly, a little overweight is fine. Humor and style are big yeses; perhaps humor is at the top. As well as someone soulful, if you can glean from a photo and a description anything about soul. And of course, no MAGA. (In other words, if they say “Not Political,” that’s a tip-off to possible MAGA.) And somewhere in my age range, or a little younger. At least have a youthful spirit.

By the end of two days I had way more than fifty “likes,” along with roses and comments (Is the competition not so great?), but as fun as it is to peruse the pics and feel flattered, I drilled down to business. I responded to four profiles, to be exact.

One guy, a little older, funky dresser, artist, thrifter. His response to me was overly ardent, but it might be okay. Next one, a guy my age with the desired soulful eyes who likes to cook, a professed romantic, somewhat sad face, reminded me of an ex-boyfriend. Beautiful lips, he said he enjoyed kissing and listening to music. Third guy, big and cuddly but younger photographer. Glasses, messy hair, quirky, cameras hanging off him. Fourth guy, social worker from the east coast, my age, humor. Need I say more?

Things seemed to be good at first. I engaged with all of them in convos online, and I was feeling cocky. I had this Hinge thing figured out; I was winning. Being older has its advantages. The photographer suggested we take a walk and cuddle (if we liked one another), and he could lob sarcasm back as quickly as I could give it. Boston guy said we had so much in common we should send out wedding invites, but in a joking way. He was funny too. The slightly older hipster was too eager, so I had to hold him off a bit.

Soulful guy had an arch sense of humor and was the most interactive. We wound up talking on the phone after a couple of days and clicked. We talked for hours. He was a deep thinker, a wounded bird, but witty and funny. And kind-sounding, very caring. A contractor, with an ex and grown kids whom he doted on. Had lived in many parts of the world. I loved his accent and he said he loved my voice too. 

After a couple of weeks, we arranged to get together. He would come see me as he lived pretty far out of town. We would have coffee or a drink and talk and vibe check. We had a FaceTime chat, and we were both attracted and nervous. 

Without providing all the salacious details, we more than hit it off. We spent the day together. All of it being good. Hanging out with him felt natural and comfortable and there was more than a spark. At the end of our time we agreed to get back together in the next week or so after he finished a major job he was doing.

Three days later, there was no communication. I started to worry. I knew he had some health issues and had been very allergic to my cat. I texted him a couple of times asking if he was okay, and could he just let me know. Somewhat like texting my sons to ask if they are dead, and begging them please type something in return.

Still no response. 

Well, I chided myself, I was stupid. I was so excited and we synced so well and I was too eager and now he had ghosted me and that was it. I realized my friends were right; there was a lot of game playing even with my honesty and sincere belief. But I’m a good person! What a naive goof I am. 

Four days later  I received a shaky misspelled text. He had a massive heart attack and was currently in the ICU. He had been there for about a week. He had stents put in his heart and broken ribs from the impact of CPR.

This turned out to be true, not a ridiculous excuse. It would take weeks to months of recovery. Obviously not too great a candidate for continued romance; he felt bad, but there were just too many obstacles. I really hoped I hadn’t contributed to the lead-up to his heart attack. I counted the days, more than four since I had seen him and this terrible incident.

We’ve talked a few times since the surgery; he is home now but very sore and tired. He has been advised not to indulge in any of his vices, a drink or smoke. He’s lucky to be alive. He doesn’t recall any of our time together. He apologized for not remembering and was incredulous when I relayed the details. He liked the photos I sent of myself, though, and called me Mystery Lady.

Strike one.

The cute photographer was flirtatious, and we took the conversations offline. He seemed eager to meet, even suggesting taking photos of me and my cat, and said his life outside work was rather dull, he was usually tired and had laundry to do. It didn’t sound as if he had a scintillating date life, so it seemed hopeful. We made a plan to meet for a walk, but then he canceled because he had a migraine. I was ready to write him off when, after two days, he got back in touch saying he still wanted to get together. He sent me winking emojis et cetera and that he was figuring out when we could finally connect. It’s been a week. Crickets. No response. I am not going to be that desperate person who keeps texting into the dark. 

Strike two.

Third guy, Boston, seemed like a great person to hang out with. Awesome sense of humor and sarcasm. He had good hair. My age. We could joke about east coast stuff, our stressful jobs, our cats. He said I was wicked pretty (Boston lingo). He was burned-out by his social work job every night, which I totally understand. We’ve reached out a couple of times and were supposed to talk on the phone, but he hasn’t gotten back to me. It’s been a few days and I don’t think that will happen. I refuse to be desperate. 

Strike three.

The older hipster I went to two different events with. He and I have similar tastes and hobbies. But I don’t feel a vibe with him and he is way too intent on finding a serious relationship, even when he says he’s not. I can tell. I had to set some boundaries. But he’s a nice dude, a friend to go to galleries with. I told him if he felt it was a waste of time to hang out as friends, I understood, but I wasn’t harboring any romantic intent. So far we trade IG reels.

Strike four because it’s not a date thing.

Apparently, these experiences—flakiness, ghosting, etc.—are pretty much universal, according to my friends who have tried it (except for the one enthusiastic divorcee). Talking with other friends who have met in real life with their matches, one had a date with a guy who neglected to disclose he was on parole, had an ankle monitor and couldn’t leave the house. Another guy omitted the fact that he had a brain injury and was in a wheelchair until they got together. And so it goes.

Younger people don’t use apps much anymore. Not sure what they do. Probably doomscrolling in the comfort of their high-rent apartments. Conversing with AI boyfriends and girlfriends.

My experiences were pretty harmless compared to most, but what the heck is this all about anyway? Can’t I just meet someone in person, like at a cat show or a bookstore? To base it all on a photo is crazy. Even if there are outstanding abs involved. I do live in a city of young tech bros, and our area is known for our lack of social skills, but I don’t think it’s too different elsewhere.

My endings were fizzles.

I don’t feel badly or as if I’m not attractive. I am older, but I don’t feel bad about that either. I’m okay with who I am; it’s just the ways these things work.

So I am a little Unhinged. 

I closed my profile and withdrew my auto payment. Sayonara, suckahs. It’s just a money-grubbing enterprise anyway. 

It’s Valentine’s Day, and yes, I’m alone. But I’m alone most other days too, so it doesn’t mean much. Better than playing games. I have my circle of friends, which is the best thing ever. 

P.S. Heart attack guy is recovering. We will stay in touch.

© Greta K, February 2026