I woke up early, stretched out my arms and was happy to be alone with the whole day ahead of me with no plans. I decided on a whim to drive 18 miles across town to the Santa Monica Farmers Market. The 10 Freeway was magically devoid of traffic on this gray Saturday morning, and if my car had a soul, it would be like that of a racehorse.
It took 20 minutes to get to the Lincoln Boulevard exit. Deep breaths of cool marine air kept that giddy feeling going.
After I was done shopping for seasonal produce, having been whacked in the face by feathery carrot tops poking out of a straw French market basket and rammed on the shin by a stroller occupied by a small dog, I headed over to Bay Cities Italian Deli & Bakery.
I lived in New York for 41 years before moving to Los Angeles seven years ago. I missed genuine Italian markets — the kind where they carve a slab of Parmesan out of a freshly cut wheel and offer you a piece to taste.
I may no longer be fertile, but late morning hours in the prepared food section of gourmand-type supermarkets are fertile grounds for reliving the experience of what it was like to be gazed at with desire by male eyes — in this case the eyes of older men who, for whatever reason, are now living alone.
How do I know they’re living solo? I’m observant and see the single-sized portions of what they order.
The man behind me beamed as he watched me take items out of my basket. “You’re buying the whole store,” he said.
Thud. That joke landed flat.
Since he was expecting a response, I was forced into being uncharacteristically polite. I mumbled, “This place reminds me of New York,” hoping that would end the dialogue.
“I’m from New York! But we moved here when I was 5 years old. I’m 86 now.”
Twenty years older than me and still in good shape. Good for him. Must be the cheese and pasta diet.
I didn’t ask, but he offered plenty of information about himself: still working, lives alone, loves music, enjoys good food.
“I have always supported the arts,” he said after asking if I was an artist. Did I give off that vibe?
My jeans, sneakers and hoodie were all plain and gender neutral. You’d think looking that way I would attract women, but maybe women are better at taking care of themselves and don’t go around broadcasting their need for company.
I hastened my step to my car, not dawdling for a second to check messages once planted in the driver’s seat. I slipped out the back of the lot and through the alley.
A few days later at Gelson’s, I caught an older man watching me read ingredients on a mustard label. He smiled after I busted him for looking, which made me recoil in horror and quickly dart over to hide in the pet food aisle. He showed up a minute later, eyeing the contents of my shopping cart and used the cat food in it as an icebreaker to ask about my cat.
I said I had five cats, which was true if you included the semi-feral ones who show up every day for their third or fourth meal. There are a lot of kindhearted animal lovers in my neighborhood. I hoped my cat lady image, normally an instant man repellent, would make the man go away.
At the checkout, another older man asked about the wine I was carefully laying down sideways on the fast-moving conveyor belt. Wine, cat food and mustard. This man wanted to know what I was making for dinner later that would go with the wine.
You did not just ask me that, I thought. Perhaps he pictured a shared meal, clinking glasses and maybe a nostalgic movie on the sofa before comfortably sinking into slumber and loud farting. He’d be safe in the company of another human being who might cover him with a blanket and kiss him on the forehead, a gesture I generally reserve for my cats.
Loneliness in single older people is real, and conflicting reports about which gender is more susceptible tell me nothing. I’ll draw my own unscientific conclusions. All I can say is I haven’t been shown this much interest in decades. My friend Marlene, who has also experienced this supermarket phenomenon — and it’s easy to see why because she is pretty and blond — says the men are either looking for a nurse or a purse.
The following day, after a late-morning dentist appointment, I was at the Bristol Farms on Wilshire Boulevard when an older man who was shorter than I am (I’m 5-foot-4) offered to help me get a package of muesli (an old person staple) from the top shelf.
He commented that the spicy tuna sushi in my cart was a good choice. Why do you think I’m getting it? I thought. Also having just come from the dentist, I was looking forward to a cold and soft lunch, and Bristol Farms’ is pretty decent. I’m half Japanese and critical of supermarket sushi. Plus, I was famished with the kind of hunger that accompanies the dissipating stress after leaving the dentist.
I couldn’t wait to rip into the container the minute I got in the car despite knowing that I’d make a big mess attempting to ingest my lunch while hunks of fish and rice tumbled out of my numb mouth. Grrrrr … hot! Hot mess was more like it, I thought.
Maybe I should have been receptive to the man’s kind offer to reach the top shelf even if it meant I might have had to hoist him up and risk copping an accidental feel that would clearly send the wrong message. I scanned the parking lot and wondered which one of these luxury vehicles was his. I checked my teeth in the visor mirror and was immediately horrified by thick saggy jowls, eye bags and liver spots.
What if this guy was a lonely plastic surgeon, I thought. Maybe I should be looking for a purse.
In California, everyone seems to have a friend who is into tarot and astrology. I’m skeptical but I called my clairvoyant friend to see if there was a reason for this sudden male attention and whether I should consider getting delivery from now on. How disappointing when she told me she saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe the next time an older man flirts with me, I’ll try a social experiment and take the bait to see where this geriatric mating dance could go. I’ll have to let you know how it turns out.
The author is a former global head of photography for Reuters. Since moving to Los Angeles, she became a writer. She’s on Substack and Instagram @nancyglowinski.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
