She Brings the Drama, I Bring the Smokes

At 61, I’ve learned a few universal truths about dating: women my age love talking about “self-care,” but somehow that doesn’t include doing anything that actually requires effort. They say they want a “healthy man,” yet their idea of health seems to stop right after they put down their phone and pick up the concealer. I’m not perfect, but I’m not pretending either. I take care of myself, stay active, enjoy life, and yes — I smoke. You’d think I just admitted to clubbing baby seals.

What really gets me isn’t the double standard; it’s the illusion. They show up online looking “youthful,” but by the time they’re done applying filters, makeup, and strategic angles, they could pass for their own profile picture’s daughter. Then when the truth peeks through — usually around the third selfie — it’s not the wrinkles that stand out, it’s the attitude. Somehow, I’m the problem because I smoke, while they’re busy spackling over reality with foundation and denial.

I’m not looking for perfection — just someone real. Someone who doesn’t measure compatibility by my habits while hiding her own behind a cosmetics counter. Someone who can laugh instead of lecture, who’s more interested in connection than correction. Until then, I’ll keep enjoying my smoke and my peace, both earned and appreciated.

Because here’s the truth: I’m not lighting up out of rebellion. I’m lighting up because it’s still one of the few pleasures left that doesn’t come with a layer of concealer or a sermon. If that offends you — relax, take a deep breath. (You’ll live longer if you stop trying to contour your way out of self-awareness.)

 

Health Police with a List of Excuses

It always starts the same way — a chat on a dating site that seems promising. She’s funny, flirty, says she’s “young at heart,” and claims to be looking for someone who’s “real.” Then, out of nowhere, comes the question: “Do you smoke?”

I type back honestly — “Yeah, I do.”

That’s when the floodgates open. Suddenly, she’s not flirting anymore; she’s diagnosing herself. Within five messages, I know more about her thyroid, back pain, anxiety, and “hormonal imbalances” than her doctor probably does. It’s like reading a medical chart disguised as small talk. She’s not just explaining — she’s justifying a lifestyle built on self-inflicted misery.

She says she “can’t exercise because of her knee,” but somehow the same knee gets her to the fridge just fine. Her “stress” is why she snacks late. Her “sleep issues” are the reason for her mood swings. Her “genetics” are to blame for everything else. But my cigarette? That’s apparently the hill she’s dying on — my bad habit, not her daily self-sabotage, is the real problem.

It’s funny how quickly responsibility gets replaced by excuses. I didn’t ask for her medical history; I asked what she likes to do for fun. Yet here I am, scrolling through a digital pity party.

I’m not judging anyone for having issues — we all have them. The difference is, I don’t pretend mine are anything but my choice. I smoke because I like it. I own it. She overeats, undersleeps, overstresses, and blames her horoscope. But I’m the one who “doesn’t take care of himself.”

By the end of the chat, I’ve realized something: I don’t need a partner who’s perfect — just one who’s honest. Until then, I’ll stick to my smokes — they complain less.

 

The Double Standard Diet

It starts the same way every time. She sends a message that reads like a job posting for sainthood: “No smokers, no negativity, must be healthy, active, and emotionally intelligent.” I read it, smile, and think — great, me too. But then reality sets in. The same woman who claims she wants a man who “takes care of himself” can’t walk up a flight of stairs without needing a break and a story about her bad knee, her metabolism, or “how busy life gets.”

It’s what I call The Double Standard Diet — no cigarettes allowed, but a steady intake of excuses is perfectly fine. She doesn’t smoke, but she’s addicted to self-pity. She talks about “manifesting positive energy” but hasn’t manifested a single healthy habit in decades. Somehow, I’m the unhealthy one because I enjoy a smoke — while she’s perfectly content marinating in stress, scrolling social media, and calling it “me time.”

The real issue isn’t health — it’s accountability. I own my choices. I smoke. I don’t make excuses for it, and I don’t pretend it’s something it’s not. But so many women my age have rewritten their life stories to make every decision sound like a symptom instead of a choice. They don’t want a partner — they want a mirror that reflects back their version of self-justification.

Here’s the irony: I’ve stayed in shape, I work hard, I’m happy, and I take responsibility for my life. Yet somehow, I’m the one being screened like a health hazard. If taking care of yourself means facing your flaws and keeping your humor intact, I’m doing just fine. Maybe I don’t need a “perfect” match after all — just someone who knows the difference between living and explaining.

 

Swipe Left on Hypocrisy

There’s one phrase that needs to be retired from every dating profile after age fifty: “Looking for a partner in crime.” Really? At our age, the only crime most of us are committing is forgetting why we walked into a room. But there it is — like clockwork — tucked between “I love to laugh” and “no smokers.” Because apparently, rebellion is sexy… unless it comes with a lighter.

So I message one of these self-proclaimed outlaws. She says she’s spontaneous, fun, and “living life to the fullest.” Great, I think — finally someone with a spark. But the spark dies faster than a wet match the moment I mention I smoke. Suddenly, the woman looking for a “partner in crime” turns into a parole officer. “Oh, I could never date a smoker,” she says, as if I just confessed to a felony.

It’s the same story on repeat. She wants adventure but never leaves her comfort zone. Says she hates drama but brings a three-season box set of it to every conversation. Claims to be honest, yet her photos are from a decade and two dress sizes ago. Meanwhile, I’m the one being judged for being upfront about who I am.

Here’s the truth: I’m not the bad guy. I don’t lie, I don’t play games, and I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not. I smoke. Big deal. At least I’m not pretending to be a “partner in crime” when I’m really just looking for someone to validate my checklist.

So yeah, I’ll keep swiping left on the walking contradictions. Because if being real is the new rebellion, then maybe I am the criminal they’ve been looking for — just not the kind they can handle.

 

Final Puff: The Real Crime

So here’s the punchline to this whole circus — I’m not the outlaw, I’m the honest one. My so-called “crime” is admitting I smoke, telling the truth, and refusing to pretend I’m a kale-eating spiritual guru who spends Sundays journaling about self-growth. Meanwhile, half the “partners in crime” out there are guilty of false advertising, identity theft (those profile pics are from another decade), and impersonating emotionally available adults.

I’ve decided the real rebellion at this age isn’t sneaking a cigarette — it’s daring to be genuine. It’s not hiding behind buzzwords or inspirational quotes. It’s saying, “Yeah, I’ve got flaws — but at least they’re mine.”

Maybe that’s why dating feels like an interrogation now. Everyone’s trying to cross-examine each other’s habits while overlooking their own. They want honesty, but only if it comes in a form they already approve of. They want a “partner in crime,” but heaven forbid that crime be nonconformity.

So I’ll stick with what works — being myself. No filters, no excuses, no inspirational hashtags. Just me, my sense of humor, and yes, my smokes. Because in a world full of polished pretenders and self-diagnosed martyrs, being unapologetically real might just be the biggest crime of all.