Oh, the woe! Was it the 60-year-old bones or droopy attitude? I had a thousand reasons not to join a dating site, the least of them my fussy attitude. Besides, even after 10 years had passed since my separation from my ex, we were still friends. Maybe that was enough.

Wadding into the fishpond I spotted a nice man swimming by. He had a happy profile and played a dozen instruments. Since he lived 500 miles away he seemed a safe bet. We emailed for months delightful letters and romantic fantasies. Then he broke the bubble. “Sure hope you like dogs,” he wrote. He had three, one of them a wolf cross. Ugh, I could smell the house 500 miles away. And I knew a man and his dog are sacred ground. The relationship, or whatever it was, died.  I met Michael at Starbucks, aged 55, father of two adults, clean, chatty, and super friendly. He kissed me almost right away saying he wanted to get over the awkwardness of the first kiss. He planned to take me dancing. But then he said he loathed his ex. He had to see her because he still lived below her in the basement of their house. A little too close for comfort I thought. Would he turn that venom on others? My guy would have to be free. I thanked him by email and said goodbye. Yet that first date emboldened me and I lined up dates for the next two weeks. One man named Calvin had a happy face and good communication skills; however, he told me at the pub we met at that he’d just got a job at a casino. I disrespected gamblers. I knew it was an emotional roller coaster for them. Another thank you sent him on his way and I scanned the virtual fishpond again. The next guy was in my profession. Surely there could be a match. He seemed so sweet in emails that his short stature didn’t faze me. He was waiting for me at Starbucks with a pretty package and a thank you note for coming to meet him. We felt like old friends right away but after some talk I sensed the desperation in his voice and saw the weight of the world in his eyes. In the sunset years I couldn’t be propping up lost ambitions. I couldn’t be his shoulder to cry on. Another thank you email was sent.

The fourth fellow was flirty and confident. In his picture he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy but "People look different in person. You never know.” So, I slathered on some make-up and headed back to Starbuck’s. Alan’s favourite and only topic was himself; his money, his travels, his international diamond cutter status. He offered to make me a sapphire ring and take me to Paris. He moved too fast and I didn’t feel a bit of attraction. As we parted he planted a big, sloppy kiss on me. Too wet. Too sloppy. No, not even fine jewelry could make that right. I wrote him a thank you and he wrote back beging me to meet him for sex. I wondered if I really wanted to date anyone at all.

But one more night and one more date. This time no dewy eyed fantasies blinded me. I wanted to meet a writer. I’d taken creative writing at the university and admired authors.

Bob grinned when he laid eyes on me that first time at Starbucks. I grinned back. He was familiar. One of the types I’d taken classes with. He had bright, lively brown eyes that twinkled when he talked. While he was about sixty he was still youthful, somehow not old. Our politics clicked, our “live and let live” attitude jived. He was single, much published and keen to do more. He’d been alone a year and had one grown daughter the same age as my grown son. When the clock sliced off three hours we were hoarse from talk. He was sweet so I kissed him goodbye. He was startled and his eyes grew as wide as a two-year-old's. The next morning I found a novel on my doorstep, The Dreamlife of Bridges. He really was a writer! He’d written a dedication on the title page: “To Carol, a true spirit. Meeting you was wonderful!” I soon set to reading the book savouring each unique turn of a phrase, each forlorn character, each local setting. All Bob’s nature shone through, his thoughts, his heart and talents all laid out for me to enjoy, to weigh and judge. There was innocence throughout the novel. He hadn’t carved a mean bone in the whole book. Quite likely, I reasoned, he is very much like his sensitive hero. It couldn’t be otherwise, could it? I looked forward nervously to seeing him again.

Our next date it was nearly the death of our new relationship. I’d planned a duck feeding rondevous and then forgot where the pond was. By the time I arrived he’d gone. I rushed home anticipating that I’d revealed myself as a flake and knowing he’d be right to ditch me before I caused him any more trouble. He laughed when I called and teased me for being so disorganized. With that behind us he took me for a drive to see the sunset, tangerine and tranquil. We were like two children silent and content without words. He was nice and sexy without pretension, I thought, how great is that? He told me about his new ideas for his next novel and I felt happy. Later at home I could hardly sleep.

Could he be for me? He had all the values and initiative and talent I admired but it was no secret that writers don’t make money. We enjoyed each other like friends and he often told me I made him happy. I was happy. Every Thursday we spent time talking, walking, watching movies and singing with his guitar. There was no sense to having outlandish expectations that we could be more than what we were.

It is one year later and we have been living together for five months. We work hard to be kind because we are committed to our relationship. Each day is a new beginning in our late love life. We still walk together, we do yoga, play scrabble and enjoy with our family and friends. It’s an exciting time to live and we are grateful. We unfold at our own pace and laugh often. I am glad I was brave enough take a risk. You have to trust yourself and be determined if you want to find love late in life. And besides, what have you got to lose?