Today is Valentine’s Day, so I figured I’d pull from the legendary SubscribeStar archives to let the unsubscribed masses bask in my dubious wisdom (which can be yours seven days a week for just $1 a month).
Dr. Girlfriend and I are enjoying a steak dinner tonight. We’re looking forward to it after a busy week. Let’s just hope I’ve gotten her some flowers—gulp!
With that, here is 24 February 2024’s “In Praise of Valentine’s Day“:
It’s funny how time heals all wounds (except the conflicts between Israelis and Arabs; Sunnis and Shiites; Russians and Ukrainians; English and Irish; humans and robots; dogs and cats; etc., etc.). What’s more notable is that dating someone who respects you and treats you well really puts a new perspective on life and love and relationships—all that mushy stuff we love to emote about around Valentine’s Day.
Yours portly has pretty much seen it all in the admittedly limited realm of heterosexual monogamous dating, the kind without any weird perversions or lurid peccadilloes attached. It’s a tough playing field out there for men. As you get to my age (I’m a supple thirty-nine now), it gets a bit more challenging.
One thing I’ve learned is that single Christian women over thirty are nuts. There’s more pressure on them—mostly soft and, I suspect, self-inflicted pressure, but pressure nonetheless—than worldly floozies to get a husband. Since most of their peers did so between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, they can’t help but think something is wrong with themselves. Women being particularly prone to solipsistic rationalization, they invent various reasons to cover up this gnawing sensation: “I’m dedicated to my career”; “The Lord Has me in a season of singleness”; etc. The Truth is probably too hard to confront.
Lest readers think I am dumping on the ladies, I acknowledge that these critiques apply partially to me, too. The difference, I think, is that it is historically- and economically-established that men often don’t marry until later in life, as we take a bit longer to mature. We also have the deeply instinctual provider role, and while the world insists we don’t have to do that and that women don’t want it, that impulse is still very real. No woman wants to date a deadbeat, and we’re pretty much all deadbeats in our early twenties. It takes us awhile to build up an empire.
Of course, that’s probably the key difference between men and women economically: most women have the luxury of dropping out of the workforce when a suitably stable and secure man comes along, if they’re willing to make mild sacrifices. It’s well-documented that men risk far more in relationships than women, and bear far greater search and support costs.
But I digress. My experience has been that single Christian women past thirty are former party girls who have reconnected with their faith (good if true), or perpetual daddy’s girls who never left home. Either way, they suddenly have ludicrously high standards that apply to the “good guys”—standards they once (and likely still would) throw out the window for the right bad boy. Alternatively, they’re so starved for male affection, they’ll throw all standards out the window (missionaries, I’ve noticed, are the worst when it comes to this tendency). Whatever the case, they’re not exactly strong “living witnesses” for the Lord.
Fear not, dear readers: despite the previous diatribe, I am not bitter (the likely reaction to reading a veritable carpet bombing of taboo Truth Bombs). I am dating a wonderful woman. She is over thirty. She is a Christian, albeit not in an intensely devout way. Indeed, she kind of defaults to the mild progressivism of most twenty-first-century American women. I don’t think she thinks about politics or social issues much beyond whatever comes up on in the mainstream.
And she’s the kindest, most well-adjusted woman I’ve ever dated. She’s so kind and supportive, it’s made me chill out—and I’m probably as batty as some of the women I’ve described here. For probably the first time in my lengthy dating career, I’m not worried about a relationship. I don’t have the gnawing sense that she doesn’t like me for some unknown reason.
It’s pretty liberating.
Also, she brings me Biscoff cookies. That’s love.
With that, here is 9 February 2023’s “TBT: Alone“:
Audre Myers is perhaps my most Anglophilic contributor, probably even more Anglophilic than Ponty, and he’s actually from England!
As such, it was only a matter of time before she graced us with a delightful, tea-and-crumpety BBC dramady about rediscovering lost love in old age.
There’s something befuddlingly adorable and quintessentially English about two stodgy geezers falling in love. Perhaps it’s the notion that we can always recapture some sliver of our misspent youths when in the throes of being in love. Nothing quite so takes us back to the possibilities (and follies) of youth quite like tumbling head-over-heels for someone else, especially when they tumble into you, willingly and excitedly.
Two fogies canoodling also gives us some hope that it’s not too late for us after all—gulp!
With that, here is Audre’s review of Last Tango in Halifax:
While scribbling away on some blog posts last week, I had a pleasant surprise: a new poetry submission care of Son of Sonnet! It’s a work about the undeniable passion shared between men and women.
Regular readers know that I am an unalloyed fan of Son’s poetry, and I encourage each of my readers to consider a subscription to his Locals page. It’s the best way to support his work directly, and I know that appreciates every subscriber. Son is also very responsive to feedback and comments, so it makes for a lively community.
I’ve really been beating this drum lately—we need to support creators on our side of this great culture war. The Left creates crap culture, but they support it and produce a lot of it; what they lack in quality they make up for with financial support and total media saturation.
But I digress. Your generous subscriptions to my SubscribeStar page have made it possible to patronize Son’s work. As a community of artists, readers, and pundits, we should work together as much as possible to cultivate and support one another’s talents. I can’t pay Son much—yet—but I’m able to offer him something for his talents because of your generosity.
For a sample of Son’s work on this blog, check out The Gemini Sonnets; you can read all six here: #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, and #6.
You can also read Son of Sonnet’s poetry on his Telegram channel, on Gab, on Minds, and, of course, on Locals.
Regular reader and contributor Pontiac Dream 39—now going by the more cumbersome, but still endearing, “Always a Kid for Today”—surprised me last week with this excellent movie review submission. It’s a review of the 2004 romantic comedy Wimbledon (2004), starring Kirsten Dunst and Paul Bettany. As a Dunstophile, I very much appreciated this review.
It also saved me having to write a review of my own, so that’s always a plus, too. One less post to fret over—woooooot! I’ve left the substance of the review unchanged from what Ponty sent me, other than adding hyperlinks to the films he references, and italicizing their titles.
But enough of my rambling. Here’s Ponty’s/AaKfT’s/Mike’s review of Wimbledon (2004):
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day! As such, I thought I’d take a look back at some of the more romantic posts of yesteryear (and yesterweek) to commemorate this season of love:
Happy Sunday—and Valentine’s Day!
—TPP
Other Lazy Sunday Installments:
The Portly Politico 