Looking for love? Boomer humor writer Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant has taken a new interest in boomers — and those older and younger — who are. Her latest book is “Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause,” which might make her the perfect person to decipher the search for love … as soon as she finds her bi-focals.

Recently I was at a coffee shop waiting for a friend (one of my New Year’s resolutions is to show up everywhere ten minutes later so other people occasionally have to wait on me). I picked up a copy of my local newspaper and a copy of our local senior paper to keep myself occupied. Little did I know how much fun I could have comparing the personal ads across the age spectrum. As a recently divorced 50-something woman, I thought there might also be something for me to learn from this little sociological experiment.

I was intrigued by this ad: “Outgoing student, 19, free spirit, Espresso addict. Must love reggae and Arrested Development.” I admire this girl’s chutzpahI didn’t become a free spirit until my late forties. And, how well she seems to know what she likes.

Perhaps this one is from her grandfather: “SWM (single white male), 78, seeking good dancer. Prefer sweet, intelligent, attractive lady who can still drink caffeine.“ Why is it that all the men who dance are either single or over 75 or both? Not that I wouldn’t happily dance with anyone, but I’ve found that most guys in their seventies and eighties who are still dancing are actually quite good at it, and I feel like Cloris Leachman when I take the floor with them.

Many ads for people under 60 include the author’s astrological sign. I guess it’s a holdover from the days people met in bars and there were only two pick-up lines: “What’s your sign?” and “What? I can’t hear you, the band’s too loud!” The guy who wrote “Tall, dark, and passionate Gemini, 27. Let’s do something where we don’t have to be quiet” may possibly have shared too much information. Anyone who knows their Zodiac might be happy to become involved with an inquisitive, charming, and upbeat guy, if they don’t also know that he is restless, fickle, and superficial.

There were some ads I just wanted to answer myself so I could get to know the people who wrote them. Like this one: “84 year-old lady who loves camping out and motorcycles. Looking for a man who doesn’t whine about his age all the time. Send picture please.” Now there’s my octogenarian role model. I like how she insists on a photo too. She’s not interested in just any old geezer with a Harley.

A lot of love-seekers under 40 are careful to state that they are “ … not looking for anything long-term, just some fun for now.” It seems they have this in common with many daters over sixty, including “WSF, 74, ISO kind, affectionate, not sexual, grandpa type to be best friends. Light drinking OK.” And “Bored? SWM 78, seeks slim well-groomed, SWF for ballroom dancing (lessons paid for if you promise to let me lead.)” Here we go again with the dancing. It’s like they’re taunting me.

It’s also very interesting to look at the phrases younger and older daters use in describing themselves and what they’re looking for. Just as a lark, try to guess the age of each of the following ad writers (don’t peek at the answers at the end unless the suspense is eating you up inside):

1. Cuddly teddy bear
2. Attractive, loving, lonely gal
3. Computer geek
4. I am a Pisces
5. Great father, loyal, honest, strong bones
6. Enjoy e-mail friends
7. Help find my tattoos
8. I enjoy dance, golf, romantic dinners, and stimulating conversations
9. I’m young, not stupid
10. Drama queens or persons with drug, alcohol, or mental health issues need apply
11. Wacky bleach-blonde vegan
12. Good cook, light smoker

If you’re looking for love in the classified ads – whether in the paper or online – keep on hunting. Because unlike jobs these days, whether you’re 20 or 90, it seems there’s a perfect match for everyone.

1 (23), 2 (67), 3 (82), 4 (41), 5 (50), 6 (88!), 7 (63), 8 (37), 9(23), 10(64), 11 (19), 12 (80)

Jane’s latest book is “Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause“

Her Web site is Laugh With Leigh-Anne

I think most of us would rather be who we are now than who we were in high school. But we’re so busy complaining, you’d never know. “Maybe I have early-onset Alzheimer’s,” another friend in her early fifties whined the other day at lunch. Maybe. But maybe she sometimes forgets things because she has too much stuff crammed into her brain -– how long each of her labors was, the birthday cake flavors preferred by everyone at her office, how much her mutual funds lost this quarter, the lyrics to every song written between 1960 and 1979, and which of us paid for lunch every time we’ve been out together in the past twelve years. This kind of stuff can overload anyone. Me, personally, I have an entire part of my brain dedicated to really bad movie dialogue and another to the Latin names of every perennial in my yard. Is it any wonder that sometimes I can’t remember my ATM password?

I’m getting tired of my midlife friends acting like they’re eighty. I don’t have much sympathy for you if you grunt when getting off the couch after you’ve beaten me in three straight sets of tennis. Or if you ride a Harley to work every day and then complain that your ergonomic chair doesn’t have enough lumbar support. And don’t tell me your hearing is going when you actually hear everything I say behind your back just fine.

It’s a matter of the glass half empty or half full … with your dentures in it. Why claim age-related problems before their time? I think we just need a different perspective in our thinking and our language:
You’re not having a senior moment. Just think of it this way: all circuits are temporarily busy. Please try again later.

• That extra weight you’ve put on in the past fifteen years isn’t middle-aged spread, it is personal growth.
• Those aren’t hot flashes you’re experiencing, they are your body’s way of letting the world know you are still hot.
• It’s not hair loss, you’re clearing your head.
• And those extra hairs in your ears and nose are an improved filtration system.
• Wrinkles? What wrinkles?!? Those are life lines and you’re proud of them!
• You’re not having trouble seeing close-up, you’ve become more outer-directed.
• You’re not less sexually-active. You’re just less self-involved.

It seems kind of silly at first, but the way we think about ourselves and the language we use when we talk to others defines the life we live. Now, if I could just get the word “Geek” off my forehead.

But curiosity got the best of me and I decided to hook the pedometer on the pocket of my jeans to see if maybe, just maybe, I was way more fit that I’d led myself to believe. After all, I thought hopefully, it’s possible that I jog two miles every night in my sleep. So for a whole day, I had a little digital reminder of the distance I traveled not only in miles, but also in kilometers. I felt downright bilingual one day when I’d gone about a mile but someone at work asked me how far I’d gone and I’d answer “1.17 kilometers!” Take it from me, always answer in the metric system because it will sound like you’ve gone so much further. Even if I’m not getting enough exercise, I thought, I am learning something new -– how to use the metric system to fool people into believing I’m more athletic than I really am. Anything that furthers your education can’t be all bad.

A weird thing happened the next day. I got up and saw the pedometer on my bureau and thought to myself, “I bet yesterday was an anomaly. I probably go a lot further on an average day.” Besides, I hadn’t really measured all the steps I’d taken. It’s fourteen steps from the bed to the shower and I often do a little jig when I’m conditioning my hair. All that hadn’t been counted! So I stuck the device on my robe and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast.

“You’re wearing that thing again?” my hubby asked suspiciously.

I thought I’d shake him up a bit. “Yeah, I’ve got a half marathon this afternoon and wanted to make sure the course was measured properly.”

We both laughed enough to snort Cheerios through our nose. Unfortunately the pedometer wasn’t able to measure that. Both hubby and I knew that even if I had accidentally lapsed back into running -– which I used to do a long, long time ago in a land far, far away -– I’d do it in the house where I could stay dry and my hair wouldn’t poof up like Helen Bonham Carter’s hair in, well, every movie she’s ever made.

I felt very healthy walking around the kitchen cleaning the counters, putting away the breakfast supplies, with the pedometer clicking away. By the time I got to the bathroom for my shower and make-up, I’d already walked 83 steps. And did you know that if you shift your weight from foot to foot while applying mascara, you can tally up extra distance? Of course, you may poke yourself in the eyeball like I did, but you have to expect a little pain with your exercise program.

By about four o’clock, I had already walked as far as the whole previous day. I was so excited I decided to set a goal. I wanted the thing to turn over 3.0001 kilometers. Don’t ask why the extra .0001. Chalk it up to the overachiever in me.

I didn’t really need anything from the grocery store on the way home that day, but I thought walking around from aisle to aisle would help me come closer to my goal, so off I went. While I stood in line waiting to check out, I kind of marched in place. Sure, the other patrons thought I was a little odd, but not as odd as that whole practicing to be a swimsuit model thing I’d tried out in line the previous week. And as I made dinner later that night, I intentionally “forgot” ingredients, so I’d have to keep going back to the pantry. I discovered that the distance from my pantry to my stove is two steps or .0003 kilometers.

After a week, the pedometer became permanently attached to me, like a new digital appendage. Lately I’ve been walking over five miles. That’s right, I’ve started counting in miles; telling people how far I’ve gone in kilometers just seems cruel, like I’m holding it over them. I wear my pedometer everywhere these days. Although a few nights ago, my husband asked me to take it off my nightgown when I got in bed. I did, but I snuck it back on after he started to snore. After all, I still need to see how far I jog in my sleep.

(C) 2008 Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant

It’s not just senior citizens who suffer memory loss. Any baby boomer knows that … with fresh reminders, every time we try to remember something but it doesn’t come. Well, Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant – who wrote “Not Guilty by Reason of Menopause” – has the same problem, but unlike the rest of us, she’s got some solutions all figured out. Maybe they’ll help you … if only you can remember them long enough!

We’re not talking simple memory loss here. You could walk up to me on the street and I could tell you what you were wearing the last time we met, your phone number and your brand of deodorant (assuming you do wear one). I just couldn’t tell you your name.

Please don’t take offense. I forget everyone’s name. It’s nothing personal. On the other hand, I never forget a dog’s name. Make of that what you will.

Over the years, friends (whose names I don’t recall) have suggested techniques for dealing with this problem. One helpful person suggested that after meeting a new person, I repeat their name in every sentence during our conversation. “How do you like this weather, Carol? And what do you do for a living, Carol? Could you zip up my pants, Carol? Wait! Where are you going, Carol?”

Another friend suggested mnemonics. With this technique, you create another word that starts with the same letter and remember it along with the person’s name -– for example, “Tommy Tomato.” But why, if I can’t remember one name, would it make any sense that I could remember two? “Hi, now don’t tell me. You’re some kind of vegetable … zucchini, eggplant, squash?”

None of these helpful suggestions has ever helped me at all. So, over the years, I’ve developed a few ideas of my own to help me avoid having to remember names or at least be able to fake it convincingly. To save you from unnecessary pain and suffering, I’ve decided to share my coping strategies with you:

• When someone comes up to you with that look that says, “We’ve met before,” pretend to choke on something. If that person is a good friend, he or she will immediately begin the Heimlich maneuver and you can simply say, “Hey, thanks, I owe you one!” and no one will be the wiser. If the individual turns and flees as you stand there gasping for air, you really didn’t want to bother yourself with remembering a name anyway.

• If you think you might know the name of a person crossing the room in your direction, but you’re not sure, start a sentence with any name, like “Barb….” Chances are, that individual will break in and correct you, “No, it’s Clarence.” At which point you simply continue on, “What I was going to say, Clarence, was that Barb was just talking about you the other day.”

• Always wear very dark glasses. Explain to everyone that you’ve just had your eyes dilated. Ask people to tell you who they are. Dark glasses also prevent people from seeing the look of panic in your eyes.

• Buy monogrammed clothing for your close friends and people you really shouldn’t offend (boss, landlord, daughter-in-law…) Although this strategy may not be much help in chance meetings on the street, for planned engagements, your friends will feel compelled to wear your gifts, and at least you’ll have their initials. It has been very helpful to me in the past, like when waking up next to the man in my life and seeing his initials on his pajamas. Keeps me from confusing him with those other husbands, Whosit and Whathisname?

• Call everyone by a nickname. “Hey, Red, how’s it going?” “Skooter, it’s been so long!” Even if they notice that you use a different nickname every time, you’re covered; just tell them they’re so interesting, they deserve many nicknames.

• Join a religious cult that allows you to simply call everyone “Brother” or “Sister.” You’ll have 50/50 odds of getting it right.

• This one always works: when meeting people in any situation, simply say “My God! You look great! Have you lost weight?” This is much better than remembering their name. They’ll not only be oblivious to your inability to remember their name, they’ll probably add you to their holiday gift list.

,” she was turning a tough time into a new adventure. But the trouble, she found, is that sometimes, you have to patch things up –

A few weeks ago my doctor prescribed an estrogen patch for my premature hot flashes. What woman is ever mature enough for hot flashes anyway?

In the past I’d declared that if and when I ever started having menopausal symptoms, I was not going to use hormones. I was going to grin and bear it. Or take herbs. I’d heard from a much older friend that black cohosh was good for hot flashes and Black Sabbath was good for mood swings. The most important lesson is though, be careful never to get the two confused, someone could get hurt.

Anyway, I was sure that my menopausal day was a long way away, off in the distant future, destined for a time when there would be a cream you could rub on that would not only handle raging hormones but also reduce cellulite and improve your cell phone reception.

But a few months ago, global warming became very personal. I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I was standing in the grocery store chatting with a neighbor when suddenly I felt as if I had swallowed a live volcano. My face started to flush and I could feel trickles of sweat rolling down my body. The cashier looked at me with concern and asked, “Are you all right? You look really red. Like I look these days right after I fill up my SUV at the gas station.”

I nodded gently, not wanting to drench the people behind me in line like a wet Labrador Retriever shaking off after a swim. I had no idea what was going on. A stroke, maybe? Or was it those jalapenos I’d had on my pizza at lunch?!

A few minutes later, the hot flash had passed. But I had another on the way to the car. And another, then another. This went on for weeks. I tried fanning myself, putting ice cubes in my bra, and visualizing myself frigid. But nothing worked. Finally, I called my doctor.

When he confirmed that I was indeed having hot flashes, I was both relieved and annoyed. Relieved that the whole spontaneous combustion theory my husband suggested was wrong, but annoyed that it was happening to me. “ I’m too young!” I yelled at the doctor. I think he’d heard that before.

When he suggested the estrogen patch, I thought of those denim patches you use when your kids’wear through the knees of their jeans. Big, thick pieces of fabric you have to iron on, and maybe add some stitching, to make sure they stay in place. My patch, however, was small and clear and adhered with just the slightest pressure.

Amazingly, it worked. My every-ten-minute flashes only happened a few times a day. Just two times a day … until two days ago. Suddenly they were back with a vengeance. But that’s not the weirdest part. What happened to my husband was odder than anything going on in my body. All of a sudden, he became sensitive and supportive. I came home from work and there were flowers on the table and candles on the fireplace mantle. He asked me if I thought we should discuss our relationship. He cried at cat food commercials, for heaven’s sake. That night at dinner, he asked me if his bald spot made him look fat!

It was hard for me to take it all in, especially considering I was about to float away in a pool of perspiration. There’s something about overheating that compromises your ability to think straight, so it took at least two hours for me to figure out what had happened. I ran into the bathroom and pulled down my pants. No estrogen patch to be found anywhere. “Honey, come here for a second.”

Rather than grunting from the other room, he showed up immediately and asked, “What is it, sweetie?”

“Pull down your pants!” I demanded.

“You could be a little more romantic,” he said softly. “Dr. Phil suggests…”

I cut him off. “Off with them.”

He lowered his jeans and voila! There it was. The missing patch. It must have come off me in bed and hubby must have rolled over on it and had it stick to him.

Well, that’s never going to happen again. From now I’m duct-taping my estrogen patch on. And my husband’s too.