THE LOS ANGELES CHRONICLES: The Hills are Alive

Posted on September 23, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

(This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.)

“Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles” (Frank Lloyd Wright)

Lonnie was seventy-six years old and stuck in a time warp. Her peroxide-blonde curls cascaded past her shoulders, her fingernails were meticulously polished a shade Gucci Red, and she carried an emotional-support Pomeranian named Lollipop around like a handbag.

She had lived in Beverly Hills for decades, the last two alone since her only child, a son, had moved to the beach with a surfboard in one hand and a UCLA undergraduate film degree in the other. Retired from the business world after a brief and unsuccessful stint in acting, Lonnie had run her own profitable housekeeping agency for years, where the homes of the privileged and monied were scrubbed, buffed and vacuumed to perfection.

Her own house, an international style abode tucked within the hills of Benedict Canyon, had once belonged to someone in the more colorful end of the entertainment business. Remnants of his taste remained: mirrors everywhere, velvet and foil wallpaper throughout, and thick-pile carpeting that gave the overall feeling that cocktails were being served with a twist.

Lonnie was not what one would consider a complicated thinker; but what she lacked in intellect, she made up for in activism. Her politics were very liberal, the kind of worldview that seemed to have gotten stuck somewhere around McGovern’s concession speech and never found its way back.  Her solution to most of the world’s problems didn’t involve conservative or progressive policies; instead, she felt a long soak in a communal hot tub, followed by a few choruses of Kumbaya and a cup of ashwagandha tea, could cure most of what ailed the world.

Romance had long been off her radar. After two failed marriages and cohabitation with a partner who left her for one of her employees, disappointment was no longer being served. Still, with her pleasingly plump figure and theatrical grooming, she kept a sparkle in her eye in case the perfect blend of Dennis Hopper and Ted Turner should happen to show up on her doorstep and ask her if she’d like to go for a spin.

One particularly sunny day, Lonnie took Lollipop for his afternoon walk through the neighborhood and encountered a man she had never seen before. He was an 83-year-old transplant from the U.K. named Perceval, “Percy” to his friends, an old-school English Lothario who had traded his ascots for an inconspicuous band of puka beads. His once porcelain skin had been thoroughly weathered by the Southern California sunshine, and his tanned legs remained rock-steady beneath the hem of his linen shorts. Percy came from old money, the kind that had obscure titles somewhere down the line, but had since made a substantial windfall in the commercial appliance business. There was nary a restaurant or café within miles of Sunset Boulevard that didn’t have Percy’s thumbprint on it.

And Percy still had an eye for the ladies. Upon setting his eyes on Lonnie, he offered to take her to lunch at one of the swankier boîtes in town: chilled oysters, gin and tonics, and delicious innuendo would be on the menu. Lonnie, alarmed by her curious attraction to this man, politely declined but felt flattered, as if a prized rose had just been named in her honor. Percy promised there would be a next time.

At their next run-in a week later, Lonnie and Percy simply stopped and gazed at one another before exchanging hellos, this time breaking into a spontaneous embrace. Unfortunately, the rubber heel of Lonnie’s bejeweled flip-flop became wedged between two stones in Percy’s dryscape, causing them to tumble down the hill, arms wrapped around each other’s waists, as if reenacting the famous beach scene from From Here to Eternity. Their lovers’ spill was caught on a neighbor’s CCTV, and they soon became a viral sensation.

Lonnie and Percy went on to become accidental relationship gurus through their wildly popular podcast, Ask Lonnie & Percy: How to Tumble into Love. Love has no age limit. Apparently, neither does bad advice. Who doesn’t love a Hollywood ending?

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THE CLASSMATES.COM SYNDROME

Posted on September 22, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” (Neale Donald Walsch)

Back in the late ’90s, when the internet was still newfangled and intriguing, the forerunner to Facebook was Classmates.com, an interactive platform that allowed us to connect with familiar faces from our secondary school years in an uncomplicated and rudimentary way. Classmates was relevant in its popularity because it brought nostalgia and curiosity together—the perfect combination to chase away the ennui that can accompany the routine of adulthood.

More than that, it had an element of fun. Classmates.com would tease us with its offer of a free sign-up, only to put the next level of messaging behind a paywall, hidden by a tantalizingly blurred background. Who was the person who had clicked on your profile and decided to send a message? The captain of the football team, whose perfectly lopsided nose and long tendrils of curls falling over one eye had the female underclass swooning with a breathless, “He looked in my direction!”? Or the nerd from biology class whom you hadn’t thought about in twenty years?  For a modest $2.95 per month premium membership, you could find out. 

Then, in 2004, the bully of the interweb, the behemoth of social connection, Facebook, came on the scene. Classmates hung in and white-knuckled it, clinging to their diminished stake in the Ghosts of Cohorts Past sector, while being relegated to enervated class reunion announcements, in memoriam tributes, and archived yearbooks for sale. They got the memo, but they filed it away.

How often do we do that with our own lives? Remain at a job we’ve outgrown, settle for an unsatisfactory relationship that has passed its expiration date, or stay logistically anchored to a particular geographical location simply because it’s rooted and known, while another area of the map is quietly calling to you?

When I was first diagnosed with cancer almost seven years ago, I felt a natural apprehension and fear, but not strictly pertaining to survival. I have a sizable faith that has pulled me through the difficulties entwined in the subsequent years, a mystical grace that has portioned the ease, and a knowing that God wasn’t through with me — yet. But I did feel an overwhelming regret for squandered time.

In one of my many inner dialogues, I cautioned myself not to become one of those people, the Cancer Cliché-cum-Yoda types who think a diagnosis comes with a certificate of supernova awareness. Still, the awareness of time and its incomparable value is not lost on me. Time is the only commodity that can never be replenished, and being stuck to our original blueprint for our life when it is no longer fruitful will mean that any pain that accompanies the familiar may outweigh the potential pleasure of the unknown.

Maybe the trick is recognizing when we’ve become our own Classmates.com — holding onto our ways that once made perfect sense, long after they’ve stopped serving us. There’s no guarantee that changing course will bring us what we hope for, but staying put guarantees only that we’ll keep living the life we already know. Sometimes you have to close the yearbook, take the risk, and, if something new is whispering your name, have the nerve to become a Facebook.

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SO I’M ANGRY, SUE ME

Posted on September 20, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Anger is one letter short of danger.” (Eleanor Roosevelt)

It’s a beautiful early autumn morning; the sun is shining, the breeze from my terrace is calm and welcoming, and I feel angry. 

It’s the type of anger that builds, like a vacuum cannister that’s been accumulating dust, dirt and pet hair and hasn’t been emptied in a while.  It’s the type of anger that tells you to stop cosplaying the spiritually enlightened guru and encourages you to get down in the mud with the rest of the world.  An anger that shifts your mindset from picking up the phone to schedule a Mass to be said in a deceased loved one’s memory to thinking, Eh, maybe a little purgatory will be good for them.  An anger that tells the small, invisible devil poking at your shoulder, I see you. Now lay off.  I’m on it…

Thank goodness it doesn’t last long. But it is frightening because it comes from a place of clarity I hadn’t possessed until the last decade or so of my life. Cancer ripped the blinders from my eyes and my body obeyed—I see things with a clarity that is unsettling to me, a mind and body completely sober and free from any alternative substances, and a self-righteousness that needs to be kept in check and knocked down from time to time.

I think what provokes me the most—aside from telemarketers, to whom I obligingly give my time when I realize they’re young, likely new to the workforce and reading from a script, all the while wanting to say, but don’t, “Just get to the point”— is the behavior of adults I know who should know better.   The people who claim to be aware and astute, yet are dismissive and inconsiderate to the realities of others.

I’ll pull a few grumbles from the files:

Cancer is a doozy of a disease. Don’t believe me, ask someone you know who’s experienced it. Not only does it rob from your physical body, but it robs emotionally from even the strongest of minds—a category in which I place myself—causing you to question and second-guess its motives and next move.  Even when you’re considered in remission or NED/NEAD (“no evidence of disease / no evidence of active disease”) it lurks.  Be a considerate friend or family member.  Don’t ping their phone at 10:30 p.m. the night before a scan with a nonsensical text and don’t suggest alternative methods of healing you know nothing about.  Know your place.  Be compassionate.   

If you’re going to be one of those friends who calls someone you haven’t spoken to in years—and yes, this happened to me in recent years—listen, share and don’t aggravate. Pick up where you last left off, but understand that life moves forward in different directions.

A male friend I’ve known for most of my life called me a couple of years ago to catch up after years of separation. Entertaining at first. “What’s new? How’s life? yada yada yada…” I quickly sensed the purpose of the call: a single man, now in his mid-to-late 60s and alone after a brief, early, and childless marriage, who now finds singledom and his impending twilight years frightening. Pull out the black book and scour for any remnants of the past who may be willing to take the bait.

Here’s the kicker: if you want to stay in the good graces of past remnants, it’s probably best not to text them at 7:01 a.m. the next morning with a political tirade you forgot to interject into your initial conversation, all because you disagree with them.

Ahhhh. That felt good. Now I can go about my day, in the sunshine with cartoon bluebirds on my shoulder instead of a pitchfork-poking agitator. Purge people, purge.

And should you meet anyone who says they never become irrationally or suddenly angry, don’t accept any wooden nickels from them.

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THE ART OF SAYING NO

Posted on September 6, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Learn to say no; it will be of more use to you than to be able to read Latin.” (Charles Spurgeon)

I learned something about the word “no” from a FedEx guy.

Decades ago, when I was younger and a woman in her prime—enough to encourage a little extra flirting—I briefly worked in NYC’s garment industry. A FedEx deliveryman came in every day as part of his route. He was pleasant, funny, and increasingly flirtatious.  Not in an objectionable way, just enough to make it clear that he was interested. One day, he asked me out.

My immediate response was to smile while my mind went into diplomatic overdrive. I was already constructing some elaborate explanation designed to politely convey that I wasn’t interested. While my brain’s internal drive was trying to come up with a reason that would make me sound as though I was a graduate of Miss Porter’s Finishing School, and my eyes were darting about, the FedEx guy looked at me with a smile and said, “It’s okay, Karen. All you have to say is ‘no.”

And there it was. A consonant and a vowel. No apology required. No stammering. Three simple words would suffice: No, thank you.

He wasn’t offended. He wasn’t wounded. He didn’t need a prolonged essay clarifying my decision. He simply understood that I wasn’t interested, and apparently had enough emotional maturity to survive the word no.

It stuck with me. It also took me somewhat longer to realize how often I had been saying “yes” when what I really meant was “no,” all because I was trying to be polite. It’s the affliction of resentful people-pleasers far and wide.

Admittedly, some no’s flow easier than others. Should a former lover who unceremoniously dumped you years earlier contact you out of the blue and ask if you’d be willing to co-sign a car note, that’s a fairly straightforward no, likely followed by a few other succinct words. But for the reluctant bride or groom heading to the altar, every cell in their body screaming, “I don’t want to do this,” the no is considerably harder to verbalize. Fear, shame, and the weight of everything that has led them to that moment can bury the word so deeply that it makes those simple two-letters feel impossible to utter, even when it’s the only honest answer.

I used to think being a good person meant being accommodating. I thought kindness required explanation, consideration required compromise, and saying no without a sufficiently compelling reason was somehow rude. Eventually I discovered that some people will happily accept everything you are willing to give them without ever wondering whether they are giving anything back.  I’m grateful to say, these days I say no with ease.

“No” is a complete sentence. 

To the FedEx guy who crossed my desk so many years ago, I may not remember your name, but I remember your pleasant smile, your self-assurance, and the wonderful simplicity of “no” you taught me. Here’s hoping life has given you many terrific yeses along the way.

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THE FADING EDGES OF YESTERDAY

Posted on August 23, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“All that is left will be memories, and eventually they, too, will vanish like dust.” (Haruki Murakami)

In my ongoing effort to surprise myself each day, I encountered a troubling realization this week: our memories don’t simply fade as we grow older, they betray us with a gradual unraveling.  The sharp details of past experiences soften and slip away, leaving behind empty spaces our minds struggle to fill.  A childhood home known by heart turns into a shadowy maze. Conversations that once held deep meaning turn into a faint memory, and the people and the places that were once intricately woven into the fabric of our life become a faded photograph, worn by the passage of time. Lately, I can’t help but wonder: am I remembering the past as it truly happened, or just the version I’ve kept alive over the years?

The other day, I was sifting through an old keepsake box and found a worn matchbook from a long-closed restaurant. It was from a New Year’s Eve many years ago, a time when I was hopelessly in love.  I can still feel the mood that wrapped around the perfection of that evening: the quiet corner table in the warm glow of candlelight, the champagne on ice, and the effortless way the hours melted away. It was an evening suspended in pure promise, making the arrival of the new year feel like a cinematic tableau.

Staring at that little matchbook, a quiet ache set in as I realized how much of the night had subtly drifted out of reach. What were we wearing? How did it feel when we embraced as the clock struck midnight? The heady, intoxicating pull of that love lingers, but the details have dissolved into a haze. I’m left holding a relic of an unforgettable evening, immersed in a feeling that’s still warm while the actual memory just keeps fading. How could something that once felt so indelible leave behind only a shadow?

Maybe one of the most poignant losses of walking a nostalgic path is realizing a powerful part of our life disappears before our time is even up. The moments that once lived so vividly inside us can no longer be rekindled with certainty—it’s the long goodbye our heart gives to our soul, bidding adieu to fragments of ourselves. Perhaps that’s the real sadness; not that our lives will eventually end, but that our memories leave this world long before we do.

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ONCE UPON A TIME, I MADE SMALL TALK

Posted on August 14, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“I had a roll of non sequiturs in my pockets and I was just tossing them out across the water trying to get a good skip going.” (Colson Whitehead, Sag Harbor)

‘That sandwich looks like it’s calling out for some banana peppers…’ I said with a smile, an exchange meant in the spirit of lighthearted banter, the kind that reminds us that while we share space in this world, why not be friendly.  I was new to Los Angeles, standing in a deli and the consecutive days of sunshine had put me in a particularly relaxed mood.  I miscalculated. I was met with a stare as if I had just asked, ‘Is that your zebra double-parked out front?’

Maybe it was a New Jersey thing I was accustomed to; people in the Garden State, although reputationally known for not suffering fools, are generally a friendly bunch. The manicured houses of suburbia seemed to suggest that everyone preferred a little privacy, but at the corner market, people seemed to enjoy being part of a community.  Apparently, I had mistaken that for a nationwide custom.  In L.A., as I had learned during my time in Paris, strangers weren’t necessarily waiting for an invitation to chat.

I remember as a child, small talk would fill the air like the clatter of dishes in a diner. Running an errand with my father was usually a source of juvenile impatience; he’d inevitably stop to chat with a familiar face who happened to cross our path. When you’re young, you’d rather hide. Anything that cuts into your time getting to the variety store for that one item you’d been eyeing feels like a nuisance. 

Then there’s small talk at company functions and business events, where conversation seems to come with a benchmark script. ‘So, what do you do?‘ is usually the opening line, followed by whatever polite nodding is required while you pretend to be fascinated by the answer. But what if, instead, you looked across the room at the stranger heading your way in the tweed jacket and asked something completely unexpected … ‘What’s the best bad decision you ever made?‘  It can go either way.  Mr. Tweed Jacket could politely excuse himself as he must say goodbye to an associate who is leaving, or his face may light up like a Christmas tree, excited that someone has finally tapped the part of him that has something more interesting to say.

I used to engage in small talk more often, or at least I used to be more naturally sociable. Somewhere along the way, I lost the patience for it. Why? And what happened in between? Have we become too tired by a daily grind, too divided by our beliefs, or too disinterested in the small pleasantries that can make life feel a bit bouncier?  Has it become too much work?  Maybe we’ve become cogs in the wheel, and who has time to hear about your chicken salad recommendations when there are other things to do?

I want the world to feel good again. To feel friendlier. To include more smiles than chances of becoming a Karen on the “She’s a Karen” TikTok page.

Maybe what the world needs is a little less suspicion and a little more hello.

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THE FAMILIAR STRANGER

Posted on August 11, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“Believe nothing you hear and only half of what you see” (Edgar Allen Poe)

We all like to believe we know the people who share our world. Spend enough years with someone, share a home, a bed, the significant events and the ordinary rituals of daily life, and surely we come to know that person. But do we? Perhaps we only know the version of them they allow us to see. The Chris Watts tragedy is an especially chilling reminder that the person sleeping beside us can carry an entire hidden life we know nothing about. We can share our existence with someone for years and still, in some profound way, be living with a stranger.

Maybe part of the problem is that we’re moving targets, constantly evolving through the inevitable changes of life. The person you married twenty years ago isn’t necessarily the same person sitting across from you today. And neither are you. We spend so much time looking toward others that we can neglect to consider how difficult it is to keep up with ourselves—or, more importantly, to align our lives with the person we’ve become. When we fail to do so, there can be casualties in the aftermath.

And sometimes the people who have known us the longest are the ones who have the hardest time accepting the person we’ve become. They remember our earlier versions, the person who recited the expected lines. When we stop playing our familiar role, they may wonder what happened to us. From their perspective, we’ve simply gone off-script.

I see life as a collection of before-and-after moments, the turning points that reshape us into versions of ourselves we, and others, may not recognize at first glance. Sometimes it’s the before-and-after of a heart-wrenching divorce, the residual grief from a death, a debilitating illness or a hard-fought financial collapse. Other times, it can be as simple as reaching a certain age and realizing that the life you’re living isn’t quite what you ordered. Somewhere within those currents that carry us elsewhere, we find ourselves changed in ways we never anticipated.

Not all change requires a seismic event to be invited. Sometimes we simply recognize that our usual way of doing things isn’t working. Which brings me, somewhat inexplicably, to George Costanza, who may have stumbled upon one of the more unconventional methods of personal transformation ever conceived.

Convinced that his instincts were responsible for virtually every bad decision he’d ever made, George decided to do the opposite of whatever his instincts told him to do. If his gut said yes, he’d say no. If he wanted to turn left, he’d go right. And, remarkably, it began to work. For perhaps the first time in his life, George was making good decisions simply by doing the opposite of what he would normally do.

I’m not suggesting we all adopt the George Costanza Method. Still, there is something to be said for occasionally questioning our instincts, particularly when they’ve led us down the wrong road to change more than once.

As for my own questionable decisions, some things are best taken to the grave.

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VINYL, VELOUR, AND THE FEELING OF HOME

Posted on July 29, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“We didn’t realize we were making memories, we just knew we were having fun.” (Anonymous)

We all have a decade that lives inside us. Mine wears bell bottoms and velour, smells faintly of Charlie perfume, and sounds like the soft crackle of a vinyl record finding its groove. Looking back, the 1970s were the comfort food decade of my life, not because they were flawless, but because something felt reassuringly normal.  Music came wrapped in album covers big enough to become artwork and neighbors knocked on the front door instead of sending a text.

I was a teenager in the 1970s, when the world felt larger and every road seemed to lead somewhere new.  There was something genuinely comforting about that era: a slower rhythm, fewer distractions, and a quieter belief that life didn’t have to be extraordinary to have purpose. There was a gentleness sewn into everyday life that I still miss today. 

Sundays belonged to family dinners, when the pot of Sunday sauce would begin its slow, steady simmer shortly after breakfast.  No Italian household worth its salt waited until lunchtime to start thinking about the sauce. The scent of tomatoes, garlic, and fried meatballs drifted through the house for hours, announcing that the day would end around a crowded table, with boyfriends welcomed as if they had always belonged.

And then there were Sunday afternoons.  Nothing felt more luxurious than driving my Pontiac Firebird with the sunroof open on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon.  I can almost feel my hands on the steering wheel as I cruised with nowhere particular to go; a full tank of gas and a favorite song were all the plans I needed.  Looking back, I realize my Firebird and I had our own kind of magic. It had the pep; I had Farrah Fawcett feathered hair. Together, we cruised with a confidence that only a teenager can possess.

The 1970s certainly had its share of turbulence. The Vietnam War was coming to an end, Watergate had left the country questioning its leaders, motorists were grappling with gas shortages, and the nation would soon elect a soft-spoken peanut farmer from Georgia as president. But beyond the headlines, there was another America. An America of neighborhood friendships, handwritten notes, music on the radio, and Sunday afternoons that lingered into the evening.

Maybe what I miss most about that decade was the permission to simply be. We weren’t constantly documenting our lives or comparing ourselves to everyone else. We went out without a phone in our pocket, got a little lost, and somehow always found our way home. A Saturday night could be as simple as hanging out in a friend’s house, meeting at the diner, going to the movies, or sitting in a car talking into the early morning hours. We weren’t chasing experiences; we were just living them.

Perhaps I don’t miss the 1970s as much as I miss the girl who drove that Firebird. I miss her optimism, her eagerness, and her conviction that the best parts of life were just around the corner.

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THE DEPARTURE LOUNGE

Posted on July 23, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

“It is impossible to experience one’s death objectively and still carry a tune.” (Woody Allen)

I knew I shouldn’t have answered it, but my ego hijacked the keyboard before better judgment had a chance.  It was late, and I was the kind of tired that is wired so tight it makes one feel as if you’re a character in The Walking Dead when I saw a post in a “Life After Death” social media group I usually browse in my free time.  A fellow insomniac typed a plaintive “I want to go home. What should I do?” Instead of doing the sensible thing and scrolling past, I grabbed my keyboard and launched into a lengthy philosophical explanation of why we’re still stuck here on Earth.

Big mistake. The keyboard vampires came out. Even the atheists joined the fray. Before long, the transcendental fur was flying.

When I finally fell back into bed, exhausted yet still wired, my mind decided to continue the work of the vampires who had left off. Scenarios of my earthly transition raced through my head, including one I would very much like to avoid.

It involves dying peacefully in my bed—but not realizing I’m dead. Instead, I hear the faint chatter of a party in my living room, perhaps with a little Sinatra playing in the background. Heart pounding, I walk out of the bedroom and notice that the lights I had carefully turned off earlier in the evening are all glowing.  And there they are: sitting on my green velvet sofa and wandering about my living room—my mother, my father, a few aunts and uncles, and perhaps a friend or two. All deceased. All waiting to welcome me home. It would be the ultimate reverse birthday surprise party, the one I never asked for.

Contrary to what many people might desire, I don’t want my first moments of phantasmal existence to include an immediate family reunion. I still have a few wrinkles in some of my earthly relationships, and I’m hoping to iron them out on the other side, with St. Anthony acting as referee. I’ve always liked him as a saint, and in every religious icon I’ve seen, he’s wearing sensible sandals. I trust a man who comes prepared for eternity with comfortable footwear.

Or worse, what if the immediate moments following our transition involve being transported to an airport-like setting, where other recently departed souls are waiting for takeoff? If moving walkways, not airplanes, carry us to our final destination, will they be clearly labeled?

Will we be forced to carry two suitcases: one filled with all the wonderful, kind things we’ve done in this lifetime, and the other with the not-so-kind? And will we have to pay extra for our heavier sins?

Here’s how I want to leave this earth: I want to rise from my body and see a rainbow-colored bridge stretching out before me. Feeling light as a feather and happy as a clam, I’ll cross it at a leisurely pace, taking my time until I see a cluster of wagging tails racing toward me—the animals I’ve loved so deeply throughout my life. At that moment, I suspect I’ll pick up the pace.

As for the humans, heaven can wait.

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THE ROMANCE RETIREMENT PLAN

Posted on July 20, 2026 by KAREN SGAMBATI

Cupid may want to update his mailing list. A growing number of the 50+ crowd have quietly disconnected the doorbell, drawn the curtains, and stopped answering his calls.

Today’s autumnal set seems to be retiring from romance at the same rate they do their careers.  A surprising number of older adults are decidedly calling it a day when it comes to the pursuit of a partnership and are comfortable with the decision.  It’s not that they’ve forgotten how to love or have become bitter cynics; they’ve simply concluded that, at this stage of life, the juice isn’t worth the squeeze.

There comes a point when the pursuit itself begins to lose its appeal. The longing for companionship may still exist, but the willingness to endure awkward first dates that feel like stilted job interviews, bottomless emotional baggage, mismatched expectations, and an endless series of compromises quietly fades. Sharing closet space no longer qualifies as a romantic fantasy.

Rather than seeing it as surrender, many view it as hard-earned wisdom. They’ve learned that being alone and content is infinitely preferable to being coupled and exhausted—or worse, chronically unhappy. They haven’t retired from romance because they’ve stopped believing in love. They’ve retired because they’ve finally discovered something just as valuable: the quiet contentment of enjoying their own company and the tranquility that accompanies it.

Then there are the nonstop debates on social media as to who’s to blame for making senior dating so godforsaken and unappealing: men or women. The women insist it’s the puerile antics of silver-haired men, complete with luxuriant ear hair, unrealistic expectations, and an apparent inability to fry an egg. The men fire back that today’s seasoned women are too brash, too entitled, and for some, too large, carrying a few extra pounds thoughtfully delivered by the Menopause Fairy.

The men lament that they’d really prefer to date younger women, but for many, their bank accounts have a way of kiboshing that fantasy. The women, meanwhile, would simply like to be appreciated for the accomplished people they’ve become and the mature beauty they’ve earned—not because they’d make an ideal nurse with a purse. Many of these initial tête-à-têtes conclude with a sudden ghosting. Forget Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King, this is the battle of the sexes.

The whole spectacle is comic relief with a snarl. After ten minutes in the comments section, you begin to suspect the happiest couples are the ones who never met.

One lesson age has taught me is the difference between lowering your expectations and lowering your standards. They’re not the same thing. Lowering expectations means recognizing that Prince Charming may have a CPAP machine and an orthopedic mattress. Lowering your standards means pretending glaring incompatibility doesn’t matter.

Years ago, while engaging in business, I met a man in his late sixties who sold promotional items for a living.  He lived in a van with his poodle, Snowball. This was long before “van life” had its own hashtag. Despite having spent years on the sidelines of the dating world, he was adamant that he wasn’t looking for just any companion.  His dream woman had to be significantly younger, possess the physique of a yoga instructor, and have enough money that his financial future would never require another logo-embossed keychain to be sold. I remember thinking, “Snowball may have a better chance of finding that woman than you do.”

I’ve thought about him many times over the years, because he’s hardly alone. We all carry around an imaginary shopping list that doesn’t always reflect reality. Growing older doesn’t mean lowering our standards. It simply means adjusting our expectations to match the life we’re actually living.

Whether you choose to keep searching or happily retire from the dating scene, there’s no wrong answer. Love doesn’t stop being wonderful simply because we stop pursuing it. For some, companionship remains a dream worth chasing. For others, peace, independence, and the freedom to answer to no one have become life’s greatest luxuries.

If you do decide to put yourself out there, go armed with courage, humor, realistic expectations, and unwavering standards. If love comes knocking and you’re eager to answer, great. If not, may you still build a life so full and satisfying that romance becomes a pleasant bonus—not a prerequisite for happiness.

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