Diary of a Ginger Prince

I feel cheated.
Being alone at this stage of life had never crossed my mind. Like any marriage, ours had its ups and downs, We weren’t always happy and perhaps one of us could’ve had courage sooner to part? I think we stayed for the kids and buried any problems. That’s a marriage.
Anyway here I am: single at 55, put out to grass.
In my head I’m not far off peak. Hear me out. I’ve got my shit together.
Physically I’m still active, fit and strong. I turn out for Search & Rescue with the Coastguard and I still play football. I walk down the street, day or night, without feeling intimidated. I’m confident that in a ruck I’d still hold my own.
Financially I’m resilient. No mortgage, money in the bank, two children to support, and enough disposable income on a single salary.
Emotionally I’m still coming to terms with the end of a twenty-year marriage, but I left with an honourable discharge. A loving, loyal, reliable partner.
I’ve got all my own hair (salt and pepper) and teeth (not a filling). Lived-in features that I hope pass for distinguished. Life experience in spades. A pleasant personality, a sense of humour, and the ability to be good company. Intellectually I’m still sharp. And yes, sexually the lead is still in the pencil.
I’m in no hurry to start another relationship. But in all seriousness — is it even an option? ShalI get a choice?
I’ve watched enough YouTube videos decrying online dating to be wary. It’s not a route I would ordinarily take, but curiosity got the better of me. I ran a two-week experiment: an ersatz version of myself; an analogue geographically distant, Gen X demographic. I wanted to see what happened.
The results were less than promising. The environment felt completely divorced from how I had previously met women. Algorithms reduce people to photographs, a few statistics and a handful of attributes, then ask us to make a decision that used to be made through proximity, conversation, chemistry and repeated exposure. The whole thing felt profoundly artificial.
I have no idea what my “sexual market value” is, and I’m not sure I want to know. I’ve spent too long being a human being to reduce myself to a score.
My real-world experience is more useful. Setting aside one-night stands, I’ve only properly loved or cared for three women. Plenty of relationships, but only three that ever mattered.
I’m struggling for a metaphor, but let’s go with Goldilocks and the three bowls of porridge.
The first didn’t love me enough? Our love was raw & tempestuous. It metastasized. It became a war but a war I desperately wanted to win. With every weapon deployed I still lost. She had an itch that needed scratching and it wasn’t me. That bowl turned cold too soon, yet it still burns.
The second loved me too much. It verged on obsession. I tried, but I would never have fitted into her family. That bowl was too hot and cooled quickly. We’re still friends.
The third loved me just right. The woman who became my wife. The compromise candidate — that sounds patronising, but twenty-five years together suggest it worked. The bowl that was just right & rarely disappointed.
Not the love of my life, perhaps. But the love of my lifetime.
And that is the problem. I know what “good enough” looks like because I’ve had it. I know what it feels like to be loved by a good person. I’m left with the quiet guilt of the compromise.
The online experiment produced an extremely hypogamic selection. Perhaps that is what unsettled me most. It’s not that I expect to find another wife — I don’t even know whether I want one. It’s that I’ve been dumped back into a marketplace I haven’t visited for twenty-five years, at an age when the rules appear to have changed, and the person I would most like to ask about them is no longer here.
I occasionally speak to a Russian Orthodox priest. His view is that I’ve had a good innings and should devote myself to the Church and my community.
He may be a little biased.
But he may also have a point.
We shall see.