Lots of guys say they peaked in high school, others in college. They long for those carefree days of beaches, brews, and babes. It was not so much for me. High school was OK, but I went to four different ones without ever moving to a new address. I had a drug overdose halfway through junior year, went through rehab, got sober, and stayed that way for a very long time. We all know that alcohol lowers inhibitions, and so does youth. The combination of the two led some of my friends to amazing experiences with lots of skiing, surfing, and getting laid. The same combination put other friends in jail or the grave. But after the age of sixteen, I had only youth on which to blame my bad decisions, not alcohol or drugs.

When it came to the opposite sex, I did fine. I lost my virginity at the respectable age of sixteen, not coincidentally after I got sober and met literally hundreds of other teenagers who were not consumed with smoking weed behind the 7-Eleven dumpster. I dated many remarkable girls in my youth, and later many women, until I found a partner at twenty-five, my oldest son’s mother, with whom I spent a couple of years. Later, I married another lovely woman, who gave me two more amazing children and twenty years together.

But I found myself single again at forty-nine years old, for the first time in twenty-two years. It was rocky at first. I had moments of extreme sadness and despair, not because I missed my wife and wanted to get back together with her, but because I did not know if I had any worth or value. I did not know if anyone would ever love me again. Although I knew the divorce was the best thing for both of us, I lamented failing at marriage to the point where the person with whom I shared literally everything for more than twenty years would rather be alone than spend any more time married to me. We went to counseling. She was kind about it. It was an amicable parting. We are still close, as friends and parents, to this day.

A couple of years before the divorce, I decided not to be sober anymore. I have written about that before; it was a decision I am glad I made. I had a sort of delayed twenties in my late-forties because of this, and after getting my feet under me post-divorce, things got better. My peak did not come in high school or college; it came between the ages of forty-nine and fifty-three. Maybe my peak is not over. Maybe I will look back at ninety-five and realize I was peaking the whole time, like a never-ending acid trip. But soon after my divorce, having lost thirty-five pounds a couple of years prior and following a rigid gym and food regimen, I was running at a lean and mean 155 pounds. I had a decent amount of muscle on me, and my hair and beard were more brown than gray. I felt great!

I flirted, I dated, I had short-term and medium-term flings. I had full-blown relationships. I dropped the L-word. I had it dropped back. And I moved on as quickly as I came. I never wanted to hurt anyone; I never wanted to be hurt. But both happened. Sleeping with four different people in a single month was a new experience for me, and kind of awesome. But it did not come without pain and emotional entanglement, for others and for me too. Nevertheless, for a guy who had been married a long time, I was definitely enjoying my life.

Of course, none of this promiscuity would last. The pandemic came, and I found myself in a long-distance, committed relationship that eventually could not withstand the travel restrictions of the nascent Coronavirus. I then dated a lovely woman from San Francisco for a bit over a year, but that ended for… reasons. This is where life found me on a dating app in the autumn of 2021.

I was looking forward to a first date on an upcoming Thursday with someone who seemed very cool, age-appropriate, and a great match. But Monday night, three days before the date, found my buddy Charles and me at a wine bar in Midtown Sacramento. Charles was, and still is, an amazing friend. Gay and four years older than me, when I found myself single and living downtown again at forty-nine years old, Charles was omnipresent; we hung out a lot. Young, straight people gravitated to Charles like moths to a flame. Charles loved the party life, but honestly, I have never seen him drunk. I think secretly I knew he was doing drugs like coke and meth, but he never did them in front of me, and I never did them with him. Three years before the events in this story, just a couple of weeks after I moved out of the home I shared with my soon-to-be ex-wife, I was with Charles and some of his younger friends in a nightclub when a thirty-year-old in our group started grinding her ass against me while we danced, and held my hand as we bar-hopped. That was the extent of my involvement with that particular young lady. I would like to think we might have spent the night together, but circumstances of the evening pulled us apart, regrettably. I was not upset. As they say, I was not sad that it was over, but happy it happened at all. Experiences like that, and there were a handful, never stopped feeling surreal to me.

But now we found ourselves in the titular wine bar, which had only five or so seats at the counter. Charles and I sat next to two sisters in maybe their mid-thirties. The woman in seat 1 was a very nice-looking lady. The one in seat 2 was out-of-this-world gorgeous. Seat 3 was Charles, and I was at the end in seat 4. The sister in seat 2 and I soon found ourselves in engaging conversation, while Charles and the sister in seat 1 talked as well. Soon it became obvious that we should switch. Charles is a good, gay wingman and was always game for helping his straight friend shine a bit brighter. I am going to call the super-hot sister from seat 2 Rowan Steele. Her actual name was weirdly way cooler than that.

Rowan and I dove deep, turning our barstools toward each other, truly close and up in each other’s business. Eventually, hands on legs, but not too much. We stared deeply into each other’s eyes while talking about everything under the sun, faces ten inches away from each other at most. She was into vintage motorcycles and worked as a financial analyst. She lived in a nearby suburb and kept apologizing for her self-described unkempt appearance (sweater, jeans, minimal makeup), exclaiming that she did not know she was going to “meet someone” tonight (her words). Her sister leaned over at one point and asked us both, “So, how’s your first date going?” We laughed and even held hands for a while as we exchanged numbers, and she enthusiastically accepted my invitation to an early dinner at Sable + Brass on Wednesday night, which was two nights away and one day before my planned date with the more age-appropriate woman.

After a fierce hug goodbye and a final gaze into each other’s eyes, Rowan and her sister left. The bartender could not help himself as he looked at me and said, “DUDE!!!” I replied, “I know, right?” I was fifty-two years old and had just crushed a chance meeting with the best-looking woman I had ever met. High as a kite, not from the wine but from the encounter, I bid Charles goodnight and walked home. Wanting to play it a little cool, I did not text her until about 10:00 p.m., simply saying, “So great to meet you! You’re good for 5:00 Wednesday at Sable + Brass?” I wanted to get the details in black and white, so to speak. She replied immediately, “Absolutely!!!”

I floated on air for the next twenty-four hours. I had been with many incredibly lovely women in my life. But Rowan was a bit over the top. I wondered briefly if some kind of scam was afoot. I didn’t think so. Our connection was genuine, and I was truly at my peak physical and social fitness at this time, despite being in my early fifties. She seemed well-positioned professionally, so the spidey-sense was silent. She did not seem intoxicated either. The evidence pointed to her just genuinely liking me. Maybe it was the right amount of salt-and-pepper temples along with size 31 jeans. I was proud of the new body, lifestyle, and temperament I had built, so I was not completely shocked that the hottest thirty-five-year-old I had ever met was into me, but I was still somewhat surprised.

I refrained from texting her the next day. I had been admonished once by a woman I quite liked for texting too much, so I had learned to check myself. I am naturally chatty, and I find the distraction of a little back and forth via text to be pleasant. But lesson learned. I actually considered canceling my Thursday date with the woman from the dating app, but I decided to keep my options open. These are dates, not marriages.

Wednesday finally came. The big day with Rowan. Still no text contact. I was the tiniest bit concerned. I decided to wait until about two hours before the date to hit her up, which I did with a casual, “Looking forward to seeing you in a couple hours!”

No reply.

No biggie, I thought. Some people are quick texter-backers, some are not. People are busy with work or other things. I tried not to be hyper-sensitive to my phone’s silence, but it was hard. By 4:15, the spidey-sense pinged. I did not think she was scamming me, but I began to wonder if she was going to ghost me. Seems paranoid, right? Just because one text, the second I had ever sent her, was not returned, does not mean she was going to ghost me. Except a sinking feeling was becoming more and more certain that she would.

Of course I needed to show up anyway. What if her phone died? What if she was still super-pumped about meeting me at Sable + Brass? Not everyone is a texter, after all. I had to go, but I did not feel good about it. I dressed up. Did my hair just right. Walked down to the restaurant (did I mention I made a reservation for two? Totally unnecessary for 5:00 on a Wednesday. I asked for a tucked-away table.) When I showed up at 4:50, I was already trying to save face. I told the hostess I had a reservation, but I was not sure my friend was going to be able to make it after all, and could I just wait at the bar? I chatted with the bartender on and off for about an hour, trying not to obsessively check my phone, but every time I did, there was no word from Rowan. I was embarrassed and ashamed.

Out the restaurant window, however, I did spy my dear friend Daphne, who lived just a couple of blocks away, walking kitty-corner to the restaurant with her elderly father, a great guy and a real kick in the pants. I paid my bar bill and chased my friends down. I told them my tale of woe. They consoled me as best they could, and we went to Uncle Vito’s for some great happy hour pizza slices and more drinks.

I never heard from Rowan again. There was no text from her apologizing with a tale of flat tires, dead phones, or sick parents. I did not text her to admonish her for flaking on me. I attempted to swallow my pride and bravely move on. She knows what she did. Only she, and maybe her sister, knows why. I have pondered this in the years since, but I have not been able to come up with a good reason. Cold feet? Second thoughts? I imagined her sister saying, “There you went again, getting carried away by a guy in the moment, only to regret it later, having no intention of following up.” This seemed likely. Who knew?

I kept my date the following night with a very lovely woman, older even – if you can believe it – than me. We went on several dates over the next few weeks, and eventually that ended. Still, I was very glad I had not canceled. Rowan taught me this, though: no one is out of my league. Several weeks later, I met a much younger woman “in the wild,” as they say – younger even than Rowan – who was not only the most beautiful woman I ever dated, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. We dated over two tumultuous years and eventually split up. But I still think of her fondly.

I will be fifty-seven this year. It does not feel like I am peaking anymore, but I am as happy as I have ever been, despite being single for the time being. The hair is much more gray than brown, and age and laziness in the kitchen have brought the weight back up a touch. There is no disguising that I am closer to sixty than fifty. I would be remiss if I did not admit that I am not feeling the attention from women in their mid-thirties anymore. And that is probably a good thing. Ultimately, I want to be on the same page with someone, and not have others assume I am rich because my girlfriend is so hot and young.

Dating is not for sissies, especially in your fifties. Brush your teeth, hit the gym, talk to people. You may still be peaking! And you never know when the hottest person you have ever seen actually shows up for a date. More important than hotness, though, you might meet the love of your life. I’m still looking.