Reading: Dating After Divorce: The Best Advice I Got

“Don’t sleep with anyone you wouldn’t want your daughters to sleep with.” 

I struggled to absorb the advice that started my one-hour phone call with a psychic. Especially since instead of the word “sleep,” she used an expletive that started with an “F.”

As a 56-year-old divorcée, I’m back in the dating pool. I thought I’d never need to date again after I got married 30 years ago, but after my divorce, it was inevitable. I prefer not to spend the rest of my life alone — I’m a happier person when I’m in a relationship. My divorce was a necessary detour, and one I don’t regret. 

I have every intention of being wiser this time around, which is why I called the psychic my girlfriend recommended to me. She had predicted within a two-month window when my girlfriend would meet a great guy, and it happened exactly as she’d said it would. I was ecstatic to hear what the psychic would say about my fate. Would she be as accurate with me?

After I scribbled down her advice, I sat back in my chair and contemplated what she’d just told me. Had I slept with someone my daughters wouldn’t approve of? Was I considering jumping in bed with someone? I’d recently received a message from a younger guy, which was flattering, but I didn’t plan to sleep with him. The answer to both those questions I’d asked myself was a stern “no.” 

The reason I’d called the psychic was because my love life had hit an all-time low since I’d begun dating again, two years earlier. I had broken up with a guy just as the pandemic hit, and between months of stay-at-home orders, fear of catching this potentially deadly virus, closed restaurants, parks, and beaches, along with masks covering our smiles, I was looking for a glimmer of…well, anything I might be able to hold on to. 

The psychic said I would meet someone in October or November, two months away, and by now our county had lifted some of its restrictions. When the first of October rolled around, I was like a hawk keeping a keen eye on my surroundings. I woke up every morning wondering if this was the day I would meet my person. I scanned the streets as I walked my dog. I put on a little extra eye shadow when I went to the grocery store and practiced smiling with my eyes. I updated my Tinder profile and checked it numerous times a day, waiting for Mr. Right to come into my life. 

After the first couple of weeks, I felt like the little bird in the children’s book, Are You My Mother? In the book, the baby bird asks everyone around him if they are his mother — she was away from the nest gathering food in anticipation of him hatching. I would inspect every decent-looking man, check his wedding ring finger, and ask myself, “Are you my man?” 

October came and went, and so did my hopes. The clock was ticking. By mid-November I’d become discouraged. If my guy didn’t show up in the next two weeks would I be alone forever? I didn’t think to ask the psychic that question. 

The week before Thanksgiving, I received a message on Tinder from a tall, good-looking green-eyed guy who had similar interests. Could he be the one? Elation ran through me. We exchanged several messages in the app and I agreed to meet for dinner two nights later. 

The night of my date, I curled my hair and thoughtfully put a cute outfit together. I dusted off my suede jacket that had been sitting at the back of my closet for the last year and preened in the mirror. I wanted to make a good first impression. 

Our first date went well and so did our second. He was smart, successful, and witty. Check. We both had grown children. Check. He was active, a skier, and outdoorsy. Check, check, check. We had great conversations. Check. But something elusive was missing. I went through my list of things I looked for when dating — compatibility, connection, and chemistry. We had a lot in common and we were able to talk about many things, but I was unsure about my physical attraction toward him. I agreed to another date anyway. I’d heard that the chemistry for some couples developed later. Maybe I just needed a little more time for the spark to ignite. With no other prospects on the horizon, I wasn’t ready to give up on love yet. 

On our third date, he showed up with a dozen yellow roses and a bottle of wine as an early birthday present, which was very thoughtful. We went for a bike ride, watched the sunset, picked up take-out and ate it at my outdoor fire pit. We hugged goodbye and he gave me a kiss good night. I went to bed that night replaying our evening searching for any sign of a spark. Nothing. 

Our fourth date came and went and the chemistry between us still hadn’t developed. The next day, fretting about what to do, I called the girlfriend who’d referred me to the psychic. She listened to my woes and helped me make sense of what I was feeling. 

In the end, I didn’t need to do anything. He slowly stopped texting and I stopped trying to force a relationship. I’ve sworn off psychics for the time being, but before I burned the notes from my call with the psychic, I read them one more time. And there it was, the advice I should have remembered from the beginning. I held my notebook and reread the words she’d said: “Important — Don’t work too hard for this relationship.” 

I knew I’d been trying to create something that wasn’t there, and I’ve stopped wondering if each guy that walks past is my guy. I know that he will show up at some point, most likely when I least expect it. 

Laurie James has successfully launched four daughters, has been the primary caretaker for her elderly parents, and is the founder of a unique program in Manhattan Beach, California, that helps women through pivotal transitions in life. Her memoir, Sandwiched: A Memoir of Holding On and Letting Go, is out now.