Having had more than a few dates this past year that were okay, even nice and enjoyable, but that didn’t seem to leave any toes tingling, oh how I can relate to this. My (paranoid?) suspicions have been that while I haven’t been enormously interested myself, the men have decided I’m not worth the bother due to my age:
I’m guessing he once was keen but is as fickle as me and hot and cold. But probably more cold, having concluded that I am too old or unappealing, or fat or thick, and that, after the investment of a few gettings-together and a hundred quid or so, he has found that plankton, and more specifically I, just don’t do it for him.
Now I am going away. He knows when I am back, so we shall see. No idea whether or not I shall ever see him again. Which is fine; just slightly odd. Middle-aged dating is just so peculiar; just so extraordinarily nebulous.