I had sworn off dating as my New Year’s resolution. Between my busy day job at the advertising agency and my secret side hustle that was becoming harder and harder to keep secret, I just didn’t have the time or patience for the snake pit of dating apps. My decade-long relationship ended last summer, and at 45, I wasn’t old, but I wasn’t young anymore, either. Out of practice and wanting something more than a one-night stand, I felt like re-entering the city’s dating scene was the romantic equivalent of a polar bear plunge. The more I tried to adapt to the culture of swiping, sexting, unmatching, and ghosting, the older, less relevant, and less desirable I felt. 

And then I met Frank. The attraction was instantaneous; I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt sparks upon meeting a guy. Frank had recently transferred from his accounting firm’s HQ in Boston to run a field office in the same building as my ad agency. About the same age as me, he radiated the refreshing confidence of someone who no longer needed to prove himself. He cut an impressive figure in a suit and tie, too. Just a whisper taller than my six feet, Frank had the build of an ex-college athlete who’d gotten quite comfortable in the C-suite. The way his belly pushed against his belt buckle, making it rest atop the ample bulge in his slacks, drove me wild. His thick, chestnut hair had more than a touch of gray at the temples, and while he was cleanshaven when I first met him, he’d let his salt-and-pepper beard grow in, much to my delight. Frank was a welcome change from the guys who cluttered up all the dating apps and prowled the back rooms at Buddies, our city’s local bear bar. Mature, easygoing, and drop-dead sexy, he was just my type.