Vol. 2, Post #94 Christmas comes early

I NEED EVERY ONE OF MY SINGLETONS TO READ THIS. Sex tips for girls* (*or maybe just folks who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds (people with readers).

Since we’re dead-smack in the middle of holiday season, let me give you an early Christmas present (regardless of what you do or don’t celebrate). Ready?

I say this with zero snark and a deep understanding of the hurt that you unwittingly cause yourself when you go down a mental spiral on a boulevard of broken dreams, because I’ve been there myself. So. here goes:

With very little exception to the rule, no, “they” did not change after you broke up. They aren’t a different person with their new or current partner. You’re not missing out on ANYTHING.

Now I’ll tell you how I know.

For some, this winter holiday season is an extra deep papercut to the finger when it comes to being a single Young Old. Traditions that gave you all the feels in another life chapter feel empty, as does perhaps your own home with less voices and fewer people underfoot. It’s only natural to start reminiscing about “what might have been” if only…go ahead…you can even whisper their name to yourself. I know I have…

• If only they had changed.

• If only they had given it one more chance.

• Even worse — if only I hadn’t done “that” — whatever THAT was which pushed them away.

I’m here to tell you, gently, to stop.

Because, if you behaved admirably, bravely, honestly, lovingly, and vulnerably in a previous relationship, and it ended, AND, if you looked at your part in the ending and worked on yourself to not make the same mistakes again? You’re in good standing in the Love Karma Department. None of that ^^^ is an easy feat, and likewise, is work that most people find easier to avoid. With that in mind, there’s a pretty good shot that your ex is still doing precisely whatever they contributed which helped end it. Yes, even if they seem happily moved on with someone new. So give yourself the freedom to say, outloud even — “That wasn’t me; that was them.”

Naturally, I have a multi-chapter story that underscores how I’ve arrived at this place wherein I finally — FINALLY — do precisely that; realize that a love match is not meant to be; realize that the onus falls to the person who wouldn’t step up or behaved poorly; realize that this person who wouldn’t step up or behaved badly IS NOT ME (if indeed that is true); and, most importantly, realize that this person with whom I’ve had a disappointing experience is most likely never going to learn from their mistakes.

It’s simple math and human nature — over 40? Over 50? Over 60? The older you are, the less likely it is that you’ll change (and if you do, Mazel Tov! You’ve bucked the trend. Precisely why most people don’t do it.).

My tale of the moment underscores this. Here it goes.

It begins with a subtle but pointed occurence from about three or four weeks ago. A good friend mentioned that an ex of mine is now dating a mutual acquaintance of ours. I don’t miss this ex, and, if I’m being honest, the few of us who were gathered around some champagne when this tidbit of gossip came out shared a laugh about it, because, apparently, my ex is up to all the annoying things he did when we dated, even in these early days of being with someone else. Consider this the pencil outline of a bigger story that I’m about to sketch for you.

Then, it deepens. This ain’t no pencil sketch — now I’m using ink.

As it’s the holiday season, party invites have been a-flyin’ and I received one from the ex-wife of a man I knew years ago (let’s call her M). M and her now ex-husband were both childhood pals of a boyfriend I had from a few years ago, and after they split up, I lost touch with both of them , so I was sort of surprised when I received the invite and assumed that it was sent as part of a larger blast and was, in fact, actually a mistake.

But it wasn’t a mistake. M. followed up with note that read, “I haven’t seen you in forever and I’m moving to The Berkshires, so I’ll be not so far away. We should catch up if you can’t make the party.”

I can’t make the party, but I did appreciate the thoughtful invite, and so I messaged her back. We started yakking. And M. ended up giving me a gift that I could never have imagined, one that means nothing to her but was a big thing to me. Gift-wrapped, even.

As we hadn’t spoken in some time, M. asked about my last boyfriend. When I knew M. best, I had dated a few men from Cape Cod and she knew them all peripherally. Small neighboring towns, etc.

(My friend Andrea says I like Massholes. I once recorded Andrea, also MA-born, listing off the top names for Massholes; listen below. This always kills me.)

“Oh, no more Cape Codders for me, thanks!” I told M., adding that I was pretty sure the most recent Masshole I had dated was still living nearby in her former hometown, now involved with someone new.

“Him? Oh, he might have been but I think that’s over now. I heard some story about how he fumbled her birthday or some other special occasion and then just wouldn’t own it, so she dumped him. You know, I always thought he was kind of a big baby.”

M. shifted gears, asking me about my son and telling me about her kids and then the phone call was over, with a plan to make a lunch date after the New Year. But I was shaking.

That boyfriend? He meant a lot to me. And he fumbled a special occasion we had planned. AND he acted like it was no big deal and we subsequently broke up after he told me, “You see? I never make you happy. I’m not the guy you want.” Like somehow I was asking for too much from him.

And now…he apparently did the same thing to another woman. See what I mean? He never changed. History repeated itself, as it often does, and as it REGULARLY does in dumbass dating scenarios with unevolved people.

And now that we’ve moved from pencil to pen, get out your oil paints, because this is what happened last week.

SO, the REAL story begins with me getting flowers, with no card, the day before Thanksgiving.

My son and his girlfriend were in town and over dinner that night, we lazily kicked around a few ideas of who could have sent them. The bouquet — an enormous bunch of sunflowers — appeared to be from an online floral service, and arrived in a box, with no note. I figured whomever sent them would speak up soon enough. This, by the way, had happened before, once or twice, over the years, and the sender always revealed themself, so I wasn’t worried. But no one reached out.

My pals Michael and Mark LOVE a good mystery, and so after the sender was def. MIA, they started sleuthing, saying, “Hey! Check your outside security camera! At least you can see who delivered them!” Good idea. FedEx was the delivery source and further snooping turned up that the bouquet (40 sunflowers!) were from the bulk flower section at Costco.

So here’s where it started to get interesting. I had written on Facebook a couple weeks prior that one of my “thrifty boss moves” was ordering bulk flowers from Costco. The assortment is not expansive, but if you want ARMFULS of flowers, Costco has great prices (and is still a “safe place” in which to spend your dollars — fuck you Target). I had posted info, with a photo of the 60 Gerbera daisies I had purchased for myself, on November 15th.

“So, whoever sent the sunflowers saw your FB post!” proclaimed Michael and Mark, aflutter in Lifetime TV fantasy scripts. We yakked about it for a few more days and then, like the sunflowers themselves at that point, it was dead and buried.

It was around this time that a man I had met almost a decade ago reappeared on social media. A quick “Hi stranger!” message from him revealed that he had just moved back East after years in California, and that he was thinking about me. I was surprised. I hadn’t seen him since 2017, but I did remember him, and I was intrigued.

I remember thinking that when we met, he was just the kind of weirdo that I like. Creative, into music, opinionated, funny, obviously politically very progressive, et. And I remember thinking that I had been puzzled when he basically dropped out of sight after we hung out one evening in a larger group, seemingly also ditching social media. Because let’s face it — while he was no longer online, he obviously had a fucking phone, but he never called me. Not once. We just had that one really fun night, and then Radio Silence.

So here he was, resurfacing on social media, telling me that he had endured a protracted family illness and subsequent death, staying out West until recently. Now he was back.

I told him it was nice to be in touch, but then, he upped his game.

He was “liking” photos, chiming in on posts. And when I asked him why, since he had clearly escaped the evil Meta, was he back online, he told me, “I wanted to connect with people I had thought about while I was off the grid. Especially you.”

Huh?

He seemed eager to tell me more, so I told him that he could call me. The phone rang IMMEDIATELY (that’s a move I love, by the way. If you ask for my number, you should call me promptly. He did.). We started yakking away. He had “activated” something I find appealing, so I was interested. Guarded but interested

As we chatted, I remembered his 2017 appeal. He was funny, charming, flippant, and VERY determined to get my attention. He told me, “Now that we’re back in touch, I’d like to see you. Can we make a date?”

I hesitated. I’ve been here before, especially lately. As you Dear Readers know, there has been a rash of I’m Scared potential suitors. ‘Tis the season?

I responded to his invitation.

ME: “Sure. I have a lowkey-by-design end of December, with no big plans so let me know when you’re around.”

HIM: “I’m heading back upstate and I want to take you to dinner. By the way, you’re exactly as I remember you. Has anyone told you what a wild and cool chick you are? I mean, your pop culture references are so specific and strange and funny! You crack me up.”

ME: “No one’s told me today, so thanks.”

HIM: “Well, I love it. I can’t believe what an ass I was in not staying in touch. I’d like a do-over, please.”

ME: “Listen (insert name here — btw, he will now be known as INH, for brevity), this is really nice and a tiny bit weird so let me make it weirder by asking you something.”

HIM, laughing: “Go ahead.”

ME: “You’re not going to be one of those guys who comes on super strong and then tells me, like a week or two weeks later, that you’re somehow intimidated or scared of me and then disappears, are you?”
HIM, after a few seconds of heavy silence: “I am not. I knew I should’ve texted or called you before I friended you again, but I was driving across country and I guess I wanted to see if you’d remember me. I’m not gonna be a fuck up, promise.”

I told him that this was FAR too early to even care if he was a fuck up, because, really, I barely knew him. But, I also told him that if he wanted to make a date to see me, I was into it. So a date was made.

Except something still wasn’t sitting right with me. Like, if he had been thinking about me all this time, how come he didn’t reach out? It had been years — 8 of them, to be exact. I decided to just put it out of my mind and see what happened next.

And here is what happened. A couple days later, INH called me and texted me a few times over the course of a morning. It was a working-from-home desk day for me, and a busy one. When I took a break, I apologized for not answering his call or texts more promptly and told him (the truth) which is that I’ve started turning off my phone when I’m writing on a work deadline. He said No Problem but he definitely also seemed slightly quiet when I said I was just saying a quick hello, adding that I’d ping him later on.

However, because I was working at home, I was able to see when FedEx pulled into the driveway.

Yes, another Mystery Bouquet was delivered but this time, I was home to receive it. Yup, Costco. Yup, no card. So I posted this on social media.

An hour later, INH called me.

“It’s me.”

“YOU!? YOU sent me these flowers?”

“And the other ones too.”

“Wait, why!?”

“Well, after we reconnected on Facebook, I scrolled back a bit and saw your post about Costco flowers, so I thought, ‘just do it.’ By the way, I wasn’t stalking (insert nervous laugh). I wanted to see if you had a boyfriend or if you were married. And then the other day, after we chatted, I was feeling elated about getting a chance to know you, so I sent more.”

I didn’t even get a chance to ask him “I don’t get it; why no card with this second bouquet?” because he continued talking.

“But now, I have to tell you something. I feel a little silly.”

“Silly? Why?” I asked. Although this whole thing was getting sillier by the minute.

“I feel like I might’ve gone a little too out of my way to tell you that I’m excited to meet up so maybe this is just too much? You seemed kind of annoyed when we spoke earlier. And also, I’m not sure where I’m going to end up living. I was thinking up by you again, but it’s unclear right now because I can’t find the right rental. I’ve been on the phone with a few leads for the past few days and so far, nothing. So maybe this was a bad idea…” His voice trailed off.

I was INCREDULOUS. Not mad. Not upset. Even laughing a bit. “INH, this is so INSANE. I wasn’t annoyed; I was working. But what’s even more insane? I ASKED you if you were gonna be one of those guys who comes on like gangbusters and then disappears. You ARE one of those guys!”

He pushed back, “I’m sorry. This is definitely my stuff. This is probably why I never called you from California. I need to learn how to not run away when I have a crush. I’m owning that. Maybe I should get settled and then we can chat again sometime?”

My response? I just hung up.

And then I unfriended him on Facebook as I sat down at my desk, before I got back to work. What a waste of time. Until I realized that it wasn’t. It was a lesson.

When I met INH in 2017, and we hung out that evening, only to have him beat a hasty retreat, I remarked to a friend, “Wow, did that guy dash or what?” My friend, who knew INH a little bit, laughed and said, “From what I know about him, he’s kind of an ‘Irish goodbye’ type.”

See where I’m going? This dude disappeared into thin air the night I met him. Should it surprise me that he basically did the same thing after he catapulted himself into my life almost a decade later, this time with posies and overly flowery compliments? It should not. But I took the bait without thinking, I guess because I give people the benefit of the doubt. I don’t see that changing, by the way. I inherently trust people. Shrugs.

Because I’ve worked long and hard on myself (in therapy and on my own path), I’m fine with the outcome of this silly tale.

But…I wasn’t always this well-therapized.

There were times, when a love affair ended or another one failed to launch, when I turned a critical eye on myself and asked those same questions that I posited above. Was it something that could’ve been salvaged if they worked on it, if WE worked on it, if I hadn’t done/said that?

You all know what I’m talking about.

And the answer, in every instance, is no.

Because — and here comes my “gift” to you, Dear Readers. I’m not just “rewarding” your reading efforts here with a vaguely entertaining but eye-rolling story from “Midlife Dating Bloopers, Part V,” I’m hoping to reinforce what so many of us instinctively know but sadly often forget.

THE OLDER WE GET, THE HARDER IT IS TO CHANGE.

THE OLDER WE GET, THE MORE PAINFUL IT IS TO DIGEST AN OFTEN VERY REAL NEED TO CHANGE.

THE OLDER WE GET, THE MORE COMFORTABLE WE GET IN OUR OWN COZY DISFUNCTION.

And do you know why and how I know this? Because I changed. And it was horribly, horribly painful and I cried buckets about it while I was happening.

I changed my own mindset on giving undeserving or flakey people more chances, on morphing myself into a seemingly different version of me in order to “appease” someone else, etc., I know I’ve done this because not only have my dearest pals remarked on this change after I finally made it stick, but because I can pinpoint precisely to where I was when I said to myself, “No. No more of this.”

^^^Not that that story matters either, because I’m pretty sure that each of you can also pinpoint precisely to where you were when you made a course correction that involved real growth, real challenge, and likely, real pain. Am I right?

Once you make that shift, something glorious happens. Something “clicks.”

You’ll never go back.

And it was this over-the-top floral fuckery from INH that gave me the latest evidence which showed me I had changed, and that my newish mindset is here to stay, if I remain vigilant about it. This guy disappointed me and since I had done the work, I saw it for what it was (ALL ABOUT HIM), so I shrugged my shoulders, and moved on, albeit with two bunches of flowers in the wake of it.

INH hadn’t changed. Just like some of my exes. Just like some of your exes.

Eureka!

This was a teaching moment!

The thought hit me like ton of bricks. Also, remember Breakout?

(Ok, I got distracted, thinking about “bricks” so I digressed. Back to biz.)

This nearly irrelevant, miniscule attempt at a love connection that broke down before it even began now suddenly seemed BIGGER. Was this something to share?

I picked up the phone. I had calls to make.

I rang up at least six friends — men and women, super savvy and likewise, adorably dopey — all of whom recently had been lamenting how their exes now were most likely better, healthier partners to new people, in those post-breakup fantasies that live rent-free in each of our heads. How these exes had probably gone to therapy, started meditating, stopped drinking, quit cigarettes, started saving more for retirement, began working less hours at the job that they hated. The lists went on.

Do you know what each of these friends have in common, besides exes that they’ve not yet exorcised? In EVERY instance, no evidence pointed to any of those changes. All six of those pals have enough intel on their exes to confirm that nothing indeed is different. There’s just someone else enduring that same bullshit in their place.

Why was this so SHAZAM! lightning bolt to me? I mean, this is just the sort of thing that most pop-culture Instagram dating coaches toss like salad online — “Stop thinking they’re different with someone else.” It’s easy to hear that; it’s another thing to digest that and further, to believe that!

INH had given me concrete proof of this, that I could share with some of my posse who were hurting. In the course of less than a week from when he first called me, INH had shown me that in the near decade that passed since we met, he had not inched himself forward into more evolved state of self realization, not even a smidge. And maybe that seems like child’s play and maybe that’s why it was easy to simply hang up the phone and go back to my desk, but a bell went off in my head. And it rang deeply and more sonorously the more I thought about it.

So that’s my gift to you, Dear Readers, as we get down to the nitty-gritty days ahead of Xmas and New Year’s.

You may be as fucked up as the next person in a million ways (I sure am), but among all of us Young Olds, there are really only two camps in which we pitch tents at this point in life.

If you know that your learned behavior, from trauma, from childhood, take your pick, is causing you to hurt other people and yet you still can’t or won’t look at it — if you’re willing to stubbornly maintain that damage and hold on tightly because that’s just the way you are, you are in the majority. Congratulations. There are plenty of assholes in that club in which you can compare notes while you hightail it from one emotional minefield to another. KA-POW!

If, however, you know that you are willing to look at those learned behaviors that you liked to employ to shield yourself from hurt, or risk-taking, or the larger unknowns in this world and make changes to STOP IT — if you’re willing to do that, you are in the minority. Congratulations. It’s a small but zesty club in which to be a member, one that offers you something you’ll rarely get in such abundance elsewhere. And that’s peace of mind.

So remember — as you seek love, sex, lust, adventure, companionship, commitment, even cohabitation or marriage in your next chapters in 2026 and beyond, Dear Readers — there are fewer and fewer people who can say they’ve done the work and made the changes. But they are out there. I know they are.

Hold out for those people. I promise there is someone who will mightily ring your bell if you do.

END OF YEAR HOUSEKEEPING!

“What’s Shove Got To Do With It” is now on vacation for the rest of December and will return, all lubed up and ready for action, on January 7th, 2026.

I love you all for being here more than I can say. Have a gorgeous and glorious rest of 2025, a Merry Xmas, a bountiful Kwanzaa, and a dazzling rest of Hanukkah. You are all certainly a profound gift and a light in my life. xoxoxoAbbe