11 years, 2 months, 15 days. That’s how long we had.
We met. We fell in love. We eloped. We knew 50 years was a lofty goal — he was 38, I was 41 — but we were determined to “go the distance,” as he always said.
The day I became his Mrs. 11/17/2011
We didn’t know the distance would be so short. 11 years, 2 months, 15 days — from I do on November 11, 2011 to goodbye on February 1, 2023, when he took his last breath on earth and his first breath in Heaven.
And for the record? Cancer sucks.
I can measure the time we were married. What I can’t measure are the things grief refuses to quantify:
The number of tears I’ve cried
The number of times I’ve heard, “I’m so sorry”
The number of times I’ve said, “Pawpaw would be so proud of you”
The number of times I’ve thought, “Oh, I need to ask Steve—” before remembering
The number of times I’ve wished he could walk the dogs with me
The number of times I’ve felt the emptiness where his touch should be
The number of times our kids could’ve used his guidance
The number of times I’ve pulled out his half-empty bottle of aftershave just to breathe him in
The list could go on for… well, forever.
I’ll never forget the question he asked on our 11th anniversary — the one we both knew would be our last. He felt well enough for a short dinner out, but the outing took everything out of him. That night, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his hand, he looked at me and asked:
“If you knew 11 years ago how this would end, would you still have married me?”
That question hits differently when you’ve lived inside cancer hell. Our marriage took “in sickness and in health” to a level I wouldn’t wish on a single soul. Why would anyone knowingly choose a marriage of just 11 years when it meant walking through a storm like that?
Because… love.
Like I told him that night, the honor of loving him for 11 years was worth more than the idea of never loving him at all. It wasn’t a comforting line for a dying man — it was the truth.
For every heartbreak, we had a hundred memories wrapped in laughter. We loved each other fiercely.
Most men I know are great with geography and have an innate instinct for getting un-lost. They can sniff the direction of a highway exit like bloodhounds. They can find a shortcut through three cornfields and two gravel roads without a single wrong turn. My late husband, Steve, proudly reigned as “King of the Backroads.”
But online dating geography reminds me of how my dad used to pack the trunk for long trips. “It’ll fit in there if youstack the luggage like this.”
These guys genuinely believe: “If I angle this map in my mind just right… geography will bend to my will.”
No, it will not. Geography is not Tetris. Distance isn’t shortened simply because you say so.
Just … stop.
Directions Aren’t Suggestions
I received a message this week from a gentleman we’ll call King George.
King George seemed perfectly pleasant at first. Location? King George, Virginia. Message? Polite. Warm. Normal enough to lower my swipe-defense shield. Asked what I like most about living in Georgia.
So I responded with equal kindness: “You seem nice, but the distance is too far.”
A perfectly reasonable, grown-woman boundary, right?
Apparently not.
This man — this adult human with a functioning smartphone and Google Maps baked into it — replies with:
“Well, King George is closer to Pennsylvania.”
Sir.
SIR. 🤦♀️
What part of “I live in GEORGIA” was unclear? What math, what map, what alternate reality was consulted for this mental malarkey?
This is not “new math.” This is New Geography, where states migrate, distances don’t exist, and all roads magically lead to your inbox.
Let’s illustrate the logic here:
Heather: “You’re too far.”
King George: “BUT IF YOU SQUINT AND TILT THE MAP—”
Geography: throws hands up and shouts, “I got nothin’.”
Listen, I admire optimism. Truly. But unless I wake up tomorrow as the mayor of Pennsylvania, this argument needs to take a seat.
“New Math was wild. New Geography is feral.”
Old Cinematography vs. New Geography
This entire exchange reminds me of my favorite move, Sleepless in Seattle. Tom Hanks, Meg Ryan … pure 90s rom-com perfection. There’s a scene where Sam (Tom Hanks) is arguing with his son, Jonah, about meeting Annie (Meg Ryan) who lives in Baltimore. Pulling down a wall-sized map (because hey, we all have one of those in the dining room, right?), Sam points to Seattle, then to Baltimore, and emphatically explains that “there are like, 26 states between here and there!”
That scene is literally the opposite of Dating App Logic:
“Three states away? Close.”
“Seven-hour drive? Practically next door.”
“Opposite ends of Virginia? Same neighborhood.”
“East Coast? West Coast? Tomato, tomahto.”
Meanwhile I’m over here with Sam’s wall map declaring:
“Sir, unless you’ve discovered teleportation, that is NOT close.”
And I don’t care how many times I’ve cried during An Affair to Remember — I’m NOT going to the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day to meet “Mr. Right” who turns out to be “Mr. Wrong Directions.”
💭 Picture, if you will …
King George: “Babe, I’m here!” — text from the Space Needle.
Because in Dating App Geography:
New York, Seattle… “What? They’re both big cities.”
“Empire State Building” = “the tall one, right?”
East Coast, West Coast, Potato, Potahto.
Meanwhile, I’m standing in the icy February wind, clinging to my dignity and a latte, and he’s out there taking blurry selfies three thousand miles away like:
“Traffic was crazy, but I made it!”
Sir. No. No, you did not. You crossed the wrong time zone, let alone the wrong building.
👀 I can see it now …
King George: (stillin Seattle, still blissfully unaware) “Yeah babe, I’m lookin’ right at it—big, tall, pointy thing. Sorta shiny. Totally iconic. I’ll meet you at the top.”
Heather: “…Sir. That is the Space Needle.”
King George: “Same difference.”
Heather: “Mm. Okay. Well, when you find me, we can drive north to Tennessee and sail across the Phoenix Ocean.”
M&M Moral of the Week
If your opening move includes:
📌 Ignoring geography 📌 Rewriting geography 📌 Inventing new geography
…that’s a hard swipe left, my friend.
I want a man who respects boundaries — emotional and geographical. If you think Georgia is next door to Virginia because you wish it were (and, more importantly, because “VA is close to PA”) … you might be the reason I shake my head and close the app.
Heatheresque Closing 💅🏻
Dating after 40 requires patience, humor, and apparently, remedial map skills. But here’s the thing: Every confused King George reminds me why I’m writing this blog in the first place.
Because somewhere out there is a woman reading this, nodding so hard she spills her coffee, whispering, “Oh thank GOD it’s not just me.”
And somewhere out there? Maybe — just maybe — is a man who can read a map. 🗺️🔍
It’s kinda sad that all I had to do was open Match and start scrolling.
Today’s “Ah, man, I was rooting for you!” award goes to Tony, age 50.
Initial reaction:
Photos? ✔️
Location? ✔️
Complete bio? ✔️
Compatible? ✔️
My thumb was about to swipe Tony into the digital land of possibility when I read it.
The prompt:
“For me, a good day isn’t complete without …”
The answer:
“My dog and a hot bath.”
Now, perhaps he meant to type, “spending time with my dog — I also like to relax later on with a hot bath.”
Perhaps.
But all I can picture is a sturdy, six-foot gentleman surrounded by bubbles, sipping a glass of wine, and locking eyes with his faithful pup across the tub. In complete, candlelit silence.
Don’t you dare deny it — you pictured it too.
And somewhere in that sudsy, surreal moment, my finger found its way back to safety. Swipe left, my friends. Swipe left.
Because in the dating world, there’s clean … and then there’s too clean. 🛁🐾
It all started innocently enough: I sat down to write just one more paragraph. You know, the famous last words of every writer who’s ever burned a meal, missed a meeting, or forgotten her own name.
Somewhere between “this line could be funnier” and “I should proofread that one more time,” my dinner arrived — a glorious cheesesteak and sweet-potato-fries combo, still sizzling when it landed on my doorstep.
And there it sat.
For forty. Whole. Minutes.
I only remembered when Phoebe and Maggie started their pre-walk wiggle dance, and I opened the door to what can only be described as a tragic culinary crime scene.
Cold cheese. Congealed grease. Fries that had given up all will to live.
It wasn’t dinner anymore — it was a cautionary tale.
💡 The Lesson (If We Can Call It That)
Writing can feed the soul, but it also starves the body. Somewhere out there, a DoorDash driver thinks I’m dead, and honestly, I can’t even be mad about it.
Because when the words come, you chase them. Even if that means eating sweet-potato fries that are soggy with regret.
✍️ Moral of the Story
The next time you tell yourself, “I’ll grab my food in a minute,” remember: a minute in writer-time equals forty in real-world minutes.
Still, I’ll take cold fries and a good paragraph over hot food and no ideas any day.
Menopause & Malarkey Because sometimes inspiration strikes… and dinner dies. 💋
Menopause & Malarkey just hit 500 views! That’s 500 shared laughs, sighs, and side-eyes from women who get it. Thank you for reading, sharing, and swiping along this wild ride with me. Here’s to the next 500 —and the next round of red flags, revelations, and ridiculousness.
Every once in a while, a dating profile comes along that makes you question everything you thought you knew about grammar, humanity, and personal hygiene.
Bless his disease-free heart
Enter Attackmewityrlov. Age 55. Gallery selfie: aisle three of what appears to be a Walmart. Username: a vowel-deprived cry for help.
The man’s profile opens with a flourish of exclamation points and… well, mostly exclamation points:
“I am a loyal clean man, never had a STD!!! I only need one Woman that’s clean and STD and drugs free!! Must be loyal!!”
Sir, blink twice if your keyboard is being held hostage.
Let’s unpack this, shall we?
🚩 1. The “Clean” Obsession
If the first thing you tell me is that you’ve “never had an STD,” I’m not impressed — I’m concerned that you think that’s the opening pitch. It’s like showing up to a job interview and proudly announcing, “I’ve never been arrested.”
When someone leads with “clean,” it’s not confidence — it’s a red flag disguised as a Clorox wipe.
🚩 2. The Grammar Crimes
The capitalization is chaotic. The punctuation is panicked. Somewhere, an English teacher is shaking her head and whispering, “Not like this.”
Gentlemen, three exclamation points do not make a personality. They make a migraine.
🚩 3. The Missing Context
Where’s your sense of humor? Your hobbies? Your story? “Must be loyal!!” tells me nothing about your character, but everything about your trust issues.
A dating bio should be a snapshot of you — not a commandment list for whoever swipes next.
💡 A Modest Proposal
Men, if you’re reading this: Start with why you’re here, not what you’re afraid of. Tell me about your favorite meal, your dog, or the last time you laughed until you cried. (Preferably not during an STD screening.)
We don’t need perfection. We need a glimpse of real.
🎬 Final Thoughts
Attackmewityrlov, wherever you are, I genuinely hope you find your loyal, clean, drug-free woman. But maybe also a friend who can proofread.
Until then, the rest of us will be over here — swiping past chaos, sipping coffee, and wondering how many exclamation points it takes to summon a relationship.
Every now and then, this page pauses the laughter long enough to remember why humor matters. Because sometimes joy and sorrow hold hands — and that’s where healing hides.
I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with a clever title for this post. Grief Is Weird. Birthdays and Goodbyes. Life Before…
Before what, exactly? (Insert exasperated sigh from your brilliant — but tired — blogger.)
To put it bluntly: life before Steve died.
In 2020 — because of course it was the year the world shut down — my husband, Steve, was diagnosed with bladder cancer. That alone is devastating enough. Pair cancer with the pandemic restrictions that determined whether a wife could accompany her terrified husband to doctor appointments or visit him after surgeries, and that devastation becomes insurmountable.
That was our reality from his first ER visit in the early hours of April 24, 2020 — my 50th birthday — until his last breath on February 1, 2023. To sum up those 1,013 days in one word: exhausting. Emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually exhausting.
I’m not here tonight to share those details — not yet.
Today is Steve’s 52nd birthday. It’s one of those “dates to anticipate” when you’re grieving — birthdays, holidays, anniversaries — any occasion that calls for extra celebration. The strange thing about grief, though, is that those dates don’t always hit when you expect them to. But catch me on a random Tuesday, focused on work with zero apparent triggers, and I’m in the restroom blowing my nose and willing myself to pull it together.
Grief is weird.
When I mentioned to friends and colleagues that today is Steve’s birthday, most offered sympathetic nods and kind words. For the first time since life before, I found myself saying, “No, it’s okay — I’m good.” And I meant it.
It’s not that I don’t miss him. We were married eleven short years, and there was never a doubt we would, as Steve liked to say, go the distance. It wasn’t the first marriage for either of us, but it was the one we finally got right.
I don’t believe we fell in love a little too late. I believe we fell in love just in time.
Three years ago today, we celebrated his final birthday here on earth. He had just started in-home hospice care — no longer undergoing treatment — but at that point, he felt tired, yet good. We were closing in on goodbye, but we weren’t there yet.
I no longer feel guilty if I don’t cry on his birthday, or Christmas, or our anniversary. Not because he wouldn’t want me to. Not because I’ve stopped caring. Not because I don’t miss him.
The love Steve and I shared built a foundation strong enough to keep carrying me. Our relationship was anchored in faith, grace, laughter, and the choice to love each other every day.
Today, I celebrate Steve’s birthday knowing he’s celebrating with Jesus. I smile when I picture his giant personality and that contagious grin.
Happy birthday, my love. My life is sweeter because you loved me, and Heaven is sweeter because you’re there.
💛 To anyone missing someone today: may your memories feel softer than your grief, and may you find a smile tucked somewhere inside the ache.
Steve on a day when love looked like a Coke & his smile.
The Scariest Thing on the Internet Isn’t AI — It’s Dating After 50
They say Halloween is for horror stories — but trust me, nothing’s more terrifying than logging into a dating app after menopause. Forget vampires and ghosts; I’m out here facing pink robes, shirtless selfies, and enough red flags to start my own parade.
This is Menopause & Malarkey: 👻Halloween Edition🎃— where we dissect three truly haunting specimens from the digital dating graveyard. 🧟
Spoiler alert: the dogs were innocent; the men, not so much. 🐾
When you’ve been on the apps long enough, you start to see patterns — and not the good kind. The men, the lighting, the mysterious “recently separated” energy. So, for the sake of science (and the sisterhood), I began documenting the most alarming cases.
What follows are three prime suspects in the ongoing investigation I call Silence of the Swipes.
🧬 The Specimens
Specimen One: Bobbie — The Pink-Robe Phantom
They say you should never judge a book by its cover, but in this case, the cover was a pink bathrobe — and the book was a crime thriller.
Bobbie appeared one chilly Monday morning, smiling from the depths of what I can only describe as “dimly lit concern.” Pink robe. Little dog. One swipe shy of hearing, “It puts the lotion on its skin.”
I don’t know what Bobbie was going for — cozy retiree? Dateline extra? Maybe “retired villain with a Yorkie”? Whatever it was, I slept with the lights on that night.
Specimen Two: Benjamin — The Bathroom Flexer
Then there’s Benjamin — a rare hybrid of midlife crisis and misplaced confidence. His natural habitat? The bathroom mirror. His camouflage? Sunglasses. Indoors.
The man’s profile photo screamed protein shake and poor decisions. One picture — just one — all bicep, no context. I zoomed in hoping for clues: wedding ring tan, countertop clutter, maybe a hostage note in the background. Nothing. Just Benjamin, flexing at the mirror like it owed him money.
If there were ever a cautionary tale about self-love gone rogue, Benjamin is Exhibit A.
Specimen Three: Sal — The Sleeveless Suspect
And finally, we have Sal — a man whose entire profile radiated the energy of a police lineup. Sleeveless shirt, glare that said “these weren’t taken voluntarily,” and a backdrop that looked one fluorescent bulb short of an interrogation room.
His bio read, “I’m just a simple guy looking for a good woman.” Sir, that may be true, but based on this lighting, I’m also 80% sure you’re wanted in at least two states and a county fair.
Adding to the intrigue? A tiny Chihuahua named Rambo. Cute, yes — but I’m fairly certain that dog has seen things.
🕵️♀️ Case Closed
After careful analysis — and by “analysis,” I mean wine, screenshots, and several texts to friends that began with “you will not believe this” — I’ve reached a few conclusions.
First: there is no algorithm strong enough to filter out weird. Second: there should be a public-service announcement about profile lighting. And third: if the photo makes you feel like you’ve accidentally wandered into a true-crime reenactment, trust your gut. Swipe left, grab some chocolate, and never settle.
Because while the ghosts of Dating App Past may still rattle their chains, I’m here with sage, sarcasm, and two sweet dogs who know a villain when they see one.
Until next time, stay sharp, stay sassy, and remember — the dogs are innocent. The men? Still under investigation. 🕯️🐾
Filed under Menopause & Malarkey — Heather Kight: midlife mischief-maker, dog mom, and sworn enemy of shirtless selfies.
Menopause & Malarkey 