The Sparkle In Her Eyes

I knew I had to get specific. I named my desire: I wanted a partner, so I made a list.

I learned a new word recently. Sexagenarian. A sexagenarian is a person in their sixties. I was a little disappointed when I realized it didn't have to anything to do with sex…or did it???

In 2022, I'd been single for the past 4 years. I'd been single a lot in my life. But I'd never given up my dream that one day I would find the woman I was meant to be with.

The pandemic gave me an opportunity to be with my loneliness, to take stock of my life; to appreciate my wonderful friends, my chosen family; to identify the choices I've made in the past and discern what things worked for me in my relationships, and in my life, and what things didn't work. It opened my heart to the possibility of finding love.

I knew I had to get specific. I named my desire: I wanted a partner. So I made a list.

My ideal partner MUST be:

A nerd, a book lover, Jewish, kind, funny, creative, possessed of a beautiful smile, and a sparkle in her eyes, brave, ethical, a Scrabble player, affectionate, compassionate, a great communicator, curvy, and smart, smart, smart.

My "MUST" scares me. I wonder if I’m limiting my options too much. But I was committed to that list. I was committed to choosing my life.

So, after 4 years of not wanting to bother, and having a libido that was missing in action, I did the thing that I enjoy the least.

I went on Match…again.

I signed in and was immediately greeted by the dating bot in residence:

Hi Nan, welcome back!

The insecure part of me interpreted that as "We've been waiting for you, you loser. We knew you'd be back. Last one didn't work out so well, huh?”

Before I gave Match my money, I browsed. I saw the faces of women I saw ten or fifteen years ago, some of whom I'd dated. I felt deflated and I commiserated. I wasn’t the only one this was hard for. I saw a few women who seemed interesting, but to open up a conversation, I had to pay. My hope surpassed my doubt and I paid for a 3-month subscription. 

I delved deeper and was met with an abundance of golf-playing lesbians who loved to kayak, camp, and hike. They described themselves as "outdoorsy." NOT me. I believe in couches, books, crossword puzzles, musicals, Netflix, and air conditioning. I don’t want to get dirty hiking through mud, or up mountains, panting and sweating, suffering with each step. I don’t want to get bitten by mosquitoes, twist my ankle, get sunburned, or worry about Lyme disease. I'm definitely INDOORSY.

There were women who "liked" my profile but didn't write. There were women who wrote but just said "hi." There were women who looked at my profile, and moved along. We're all somewhat shy I thought, but if I didn't reach out, take some risks, say more than hello, how could I expect to connect, to find my beloved? I wrote to women who didn't write back. I received messages from women who didn't interest me at all. Then one day, I signed in to see that someone had viewed my profile. Her name was Linda. I read her profile. There was a sentence in it that sang to me:

“I’ll know I’ve found the one when the sparkle in her eyes when she looks at me meets the sparkle in my eyes when I look at her.”

She fit my list so completely that it felt a little scary... She even used the same words as me: “sparkle in her eyes”. But...she liked to kayak. Okay, I can give her that, as long as I don’t have to row along.

Then I began to spin. Why did she just look? Why didn't she write? What was wrong with me? We seem to have so much in common. She's adorable and funny. Curvy. Jewish! She wears chunky horn-rimmed frames. I’m a pushover for a woman who wears glasses. Definitely smart. A nerd. A writer. A reader. And she loves to cook…that was an added bonus! I’m terrible in the kitchen. I decided to get in touch, and sent her a message:

“Hi! (oy vey, hi? I said hi?) I saw that you viewed me, and wondered if you'd like to correspond. I LOVE your typewriter tattoo. Fabulous.” A little more than “hi”, but still pretty safe. She responded and said,

“We actually met a long time ago, Nan. You know my brother.”

Her brother and sister-in-law had been my friends for years. This connection gave me hope. I was at their wedding over 30 years ago and of course, Linda was there too. We’d attended some of the same family parties, but I didn’t remember her. My memory was sketchy.

We wrote back and forth for a few days, and then we made a date to meet for tea. It was a cold, gray day when I drove to the tea shop, parked on a side street, and took a deep breath. As I got out of my car, I reminded myself to keep breathing. I see Linda walking toward me. She’s tall. Taller than me by several inches. Broad-shouldered and strong-looking. She’s got a confident stride, and smiled wide when she saw me. We looked at each other, beamed, and opened our arms wide for a hug. Some of my tension evaporated. I was jittery and comforted at the same time.

The tea shop was a warm, inviting space, filled with a rainbow of colored teapots and mugs, a vast selection of chocolates and other sweet treats. There were more kinds of tea than I’d ever seen.

Standing next to one another at the counter, waiting to place our orders, I leaned in and whispered that I felt a little nervous. She said “Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

We chose a table near the door and chatted for a few minutes, as we waited for our tea. Then she noticed my tattoo. I have a bracelet of 32 semicolons wrapped around my left wrist. I looked into her eyes, feeling a little unsure, and asked her if she knew what it meant.

“I do,” she said. “But I’ve only ever seen that tattoo with one semicolon.”

The Semicolon Project is a mental health organization founded by a woman named Amy Bleuel in memory of her father, who committed suicide. The meaning is described as such:

“A semicolon is used when an author could have chosen to end their sentence, but decided not to because they had more to say. The author is you, and the sentence is your life. It’s not just a symbol; It's a reminder that your story isn't over.”

I designed my tattoo the day before my 60th birthday. I found an artist to ink it that same day. I chose 32 semicolons to represent each year of my life when I was being treated for major depression. Sometimes it was so bad that I’d go to that dark place of wanting to die. My tattoo is a celebration of my choice to give up the belief that I don’t deserve to be here.

I explain this to her, worrying that I’ve divulged too much. But she gently runs her index finger over my wrist, and with tears in her eyes, she looks at me and says,

“I’m so glad you didn’t leave, Nan.”

“Me too,” I reply.

Our energy shifts and we banter back and forth for the next three hours. We are laughing and playful. It feels electric. Finally, the counterperson politely asks us to leave. Yup, we closed the place.

Our first date was on March 30, 2022. Linda and I have been together for almost two years, though it feels like I’ve known her my whole life.

The sparkle in her eyes when she looks at me meets the sparkle in my eyes when I look at her.

My story isn’t over. I am fully alive and I am celebrating this life, and the love we share. I am a sexagenarian…and yes, it does!

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Portrait of Nan Tepper by Franco Vogt