Bullets, Brisket and Botanicals: My First Date as a 58-Year-Old Widow

Three years ago, I lost my husband to ALS. The kind of loss that shakes your foundation, reshapes your life, and teaches you just how many casserole dishes the human heart can receive in a week. Grief is a long, lumpy road. But somewhere along the way—around year three—I looked up and thought, Well, I’m still here. And I still know how to apply lipstick. Let’s see what’s out there.

Enter: my friend, the matchmaker. She said she had the perfect man for me—an attorney, no less. Smart, established, stable. I pictured Atticus Finch with a touch of George Clooney. What I got was more like Matlock, minus the powder blue suit and with a cowboy hat.

Our date began at an outdoor shooting range, because nothing says “romance” like the smell of gunpowder and ear protection that makes meaningful conversation nearly impossible. I hadn’t held a gun since the Reagan administration, but I gamely picked up the Glock, channeling Annie Oakley in orthopedic inserts. I aimed. I fired. I hit the paper target square in the groin. Apparently, my subconscious had some thoughts about dating again.

Next stop: barbecue. He took me to a place in Nashville known for meat that falls off the bone and servers who call everyone “darlin.” He ordered a massive rack of ribs, leaned in with sauce already in his beard, and asked me what I did for fun.

“I like reading, cozy socks, true crime shows, and naps,” I said cheerfully.

He blinked. “You mean like… naps-naps?”

“Is there another kind?”

That’s when I saw it. The flicker. The one where a man realizes the woman across from him is not a fitness influencer disguised as a paralegal, but rather, a woman who knows her worth, loves soft lighting, and is absolutely not getting up at 5 a.m. to go running just for fun.

To cap it off, we wandered through Cheekwood Gardens, where I smelled every flower like a woman trying to prolong the part of the date that didn’t involve firearms or meat sweats. I complimented a topiary. He checked his watch. Twice.

And then, it was over.

No second date. No follow-up text. Not even a ghosting, really—just a quiet fade into the Nashville air.

But here’s the thing. I went on a date. I got out there. I didn’t combust or cry into the brisket. I laughed. I flirted (badly). I hit a groin-shaped paper target. And I remembered that somewhere underneath the layers of grief and grief-adjacent sweatpants, I’m still a woman with heart, humor, and a deep commitment to flannel sheets.

So maybe I wasn’t the trophy wife he was looking for. I’m the comfort queen. I come with a heated throw blanket, emotional maturity, and the ability to recognize when a man isn’t emotionally available—even when he’s holding a semi-automatic.

Onward. There are more gardens. There are more barbecue joints. And who knows? Maybe next time, the date will end with dessert. Or at least without ballistics.

See you in the margins,

--Bookstore Geek