Anita Richwine
"There’s something laughable about reaching the age when you’re taping a steamy picture of a scantily clad hunk on the bathroom mirror while researching the benefits of retirement planning."
This is typical of the experiences written with punctuations of wry wit by a woman who realized the need for humor to survive entering mid-life in the single lane. In this light-natured chronicle of her three-stage run for independence, she hopes that others of seasoned age will:
- Chuckle at the new grandmother buying calcium supplements and her first condoms at the same time.
- Rediscover the surprises and pitfalls of the dating scene.
- Understand the challenge of meeting new men – the eligible variety.
- Learn the upside of being alone through tongue-in-cheek trials and triumphs.
- Accept the downside of aging and cope with hating the young woman who buys form-fitting jeans off the rack.
- Appreciate the fifty-plus and older still looking for their magic.
Seasoned single women who shared their stories with the author boosted her belief, "I may not handle every crisis with amazing grace, but if God had meant us to live alone forever, we would never have dresses with buttons in the back."
Anita Richwine faced an uncertain, scary future when she chose divorce to end a long-time marriage. About two years later, she made another decision. She was a trained journalist with nearly two decades working as a professional newspaper reporter, editor and columnist. She felt passionately about the insight and strength she gained while moving toward independent comfort. The value of humor was clear.
Why not use her writing talent to mold into words what she had learned and share them with other mid-lifers already in a single stage or about to take the plunge? The result is this largely nonfiction, tongue-in-cheek book – her first.
During her seventeen-year newspaper experience, Richwine received numerous national and regional awards for her writing.
A psychic once predicted that my soul mate was out there waiting for me, but I wasn’t in the right place at the right time. She suggested I select a place like a bookstore coffee shop, go alone once a week, spend an hour sipping designer caffeine and look friendly. I was to do this for twelve weeks and he will come, she said. "Don’t miss," she instructed. "That could be the day he is there."
Intrigued with trying something unusual, I committed to the plan. Three months later, I was $200 poorer from the coffee, fancy pastries and book purchases I felt obliged to buy, but no soul mate in sight. Though I smiled a lot, none of the few men I encountered smiled back nor did they appear interesting. I did notice a number of women sitting alone with coffee cups in front of them. It became clear. The psychic had stock in that bookstore.
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There were three enjoyable Club Med trips to faraway islands that convinced us that this vacation would meet most expectations for having pure fun or shedding old inhibitions and fears.
Though frightened to near paralysis, I climbed a Jamaican waterfall on rocks as slippery as a baby’s wet behind. I, poster child for any "Better To Be Safe Than Sorry" campaign, did that.
When our guide offered to take our pictures at the foot of the waterfall, I eagerly handed him my camera. "I need documentation," I declared. "My kids will never believe I actually tried this."
On a different level, I thought I could never participate in the bare-breasted sunbathing so prevalent at Club Meds. But caught up with a frolicking bunch of beach party revelers dizzy from dipping into the barrels of sangria punch and building human pyramids, I actually lowered my swimsuit top for Jean to take a quick photo.
"I could have used a few more seconds for better focus," Jean grumbled.
"You realize that if you threaten to show that picture to anyone back home, I’ll have to kill you." I already regretted my impulsive behavior.
