It’s been said we all have a type. But what does that actually mean? Tall, dark, and handsome? Short, bald, and regular-looking? Some people swoon over redheads; others go for big muscles. If my past is any indication, I definitely have a physical type: taller than me (which, at 5’4”, isn’t a big ask), dark hair, and a killer smile. Smiles get me every time. And if you make me laugh? Well, I’d offer to have your babies—except the baby factory is permanently closed.
Also, good forearms. There’s just something about the perfect rolled-up sleeve-to-forearm exposure ratio, ideally capped off with a nice watch. It makes me weak. IYKYK
Now, you’d think having a physical type would be harmless. But when my relationship history reads less like a series of unique love stories and more like a long-running dramady franchise—different actors, same script—it’s time for some self-reflection.
Take Ex and Jay, for example. Both fit the physical bill: dark hair, great smile, taller than me, and yes, solid arms. But the real kicker? Their personalities, while not identical, hit eerily similar notes.
Ex was, and forever will be, a textbook narcissist. Every medical professional I’ve ever described him to has given me the same line: “I haven’t met him, so I can’t diagnose him—but based on what you’re saying, he checks all the narcissist boxes.” They also tell me my trauma responses are classic signs of someone who survived narcissistic abuse. Do with that what you will. Seriously, I didn’t even know what a narcissist was in my 20s. Did you?
Even though we didn’t have the term for it back then, Ex love-bombed me into oblivion. He practically moved in within a week of our meeting, and we never left each other’s side after. (Apologies to my poor college roommate for that.) He was obsessed with being perceived as a good guy, the kind who’d literally give you the shirt off his back—like the time he took off his tie at a wedding and handed it to a man who complimented it. He needed to be the center of attention, and I had to play along. He dictated what I could say in front of his family and coworkers. He made me dim my light. Ex is the reason I used a pseudonym for my old book review blog. He also had a deeply dysfunctional relationship with his parents—mommy and daddy issues galore. That might be the biggest understatement I’ve ever written.
Jay? Well, I’m not saying he’s a narcissist, and I don’t think he is. (Though, funnily enough, his ex apparently called him one on her way out.) But like Ex, Jay loved the spotlight. I mean, the man literally fronted a cover band—singing, dancing, peacocking around center stage. He also cared deeply about being seen as a good guy, so much so that he desperately wanted me to say it out loud when we broke up.
And just like Ex, Jay love-bombed me early on. He tried to lock things down at the end of our first date—I made him go on the other dates he had already scheduled, but we were officially a couple within the week. He also had a habit of subtly policing my words, particularly around his friends.
One night, after dinner with a new friend of his, the new friend offered me a glass of port as a nightcap. I politely declined—I am not a fan of port. My ex-father-in-law used to force me to drink it while calling me uncultured for not enjoying it. I didn’t say all that, just a simple “no thanks.” But Jay’s friend launched into a passionate speech about why his port was superior, insisting I try it. Half-joking, I asked if he was mansplaining port to me. That’s it, that’s all I said.
Later that night, back at Jay’s place, he let me know he did not appreciate my “rude” tone toward his friend. Because I was still deep in my people-pleasing era, I apologized to the guy the next time I saw him. I felt awful afterward—about myself and about the whole situation—what I said didn’t warrant an apology. But Jay was happy.
Which begs the question: Is this my type? Am I just drawn to broken, dark-haired, great-smiled men with fantastic arms? Or am I unknowingly casting the same role in my personal relationship drama?
"Having a Type" vs. Being Stuck in a Loop
When does “having a type” turn into a pattern you need to break? There is no time like the present to figure that out.
I will probably always be drawn to the tall, dark, and handsome set. That’s just how I’m wired. But in midlife, I’ve had to expand my horizons—mostly because a lot of men in their 50s are follicularly challenged. And let’s be real: dating apps don’t make it easy to focus on anything but looks. The whole swiping system is designed to gamify your instincts, locking you into a loop of its own making. It’s not just me—everyone does this. Apps like Bumble and Hinge even suppress conventionally attractive people to keep engagement up. If you’ve ever been stuck in Hinge’s dreaded Rose jail, you know what I’m talking about.
So we swipe, looking for our physical “type,” and hope for the best emotionally. Meanwhile, in-person dating or meeting in the wild has practically disappeared. With third spaces—places other than home or work—becoming scarce, meeting people in the wild feels impossible.
Which brings me back to Jay. The moment I caught real feelings, he bolted. (Avoidant Attachment) I mean, full-blown Road Runner smoke trail (pun intended). And lately? Every guy I date seems to be a love bomber. The last guy I went out with came on strong—which, honestly, is a pattern at this point. It makes me wonder: Is that my actual type? And if so, why? How do I keep finding these guys? These are legitimate questions I don’t have the answers to, do you?
Maybe midlife men love bomb because they’re grasping at a good woman, terrified of being alone—but also hedging their bets, always wondering if there’s something better out there. A younger, less difficult version, if you will. The statistics don’t lie: the happiest people? Single women. We’re doing just fine on our own. Meanwhile, men literally live longer when they’re partnered up, and you can’t throw a rock without hitting a podcast or think piece about the male loneliness epidemic. The kicker? Instead of reflecting on how they got here, too many of these men are just blaming women for their problems.
Of course these men love bomb me. I’m absolutely obsession worthy. I’d want to lock me down, too. —Me, not derogatory
So, if my “type” keeps leading me straight into heartbreak cul-de-sacs, maybe it’s time for a plot twist. Don’t you think?
Enter Limerence – The Addictive High of the Wrong Person
Limerence is yet another old but new-to-us word that’s made its way into the lexicon. It’s defined as a state of involuntary infatuation or obsession, marked by an intense craving for reciprocation. Let me say that part again, “marked by an intense craving for reciprocation.” Basically, for romance, limerence is your brain on a horny sugar rush—obsessively analyzing text messages, riding an emotional rollercoaster, and getting those stomach-flipping butterflies over the bare fucking minimum (also known as breadcrumbing, another term we’ve had to learn).
Limerence will make a smart woman do stupid things. It’ll make a people-pleaser bulldoze her own boundaries. It’s the devil dressed up in sunshine and promise.
Which brings me to my personal attachment-style theory. Most experts say our attachment patterns stem from childhood experiences—the foundation laid by our earliest relationships shaping how we connect as adults. But I’d argue that my attachment issues came directly from spending thirty years with Ex. I entered that relationship securely attached. My parents modeled a loving, stable partnership, showing my brother and me what healthy love looked like daily. But I spent more time under Ex’s thumb, three decades, than I did under my parents’ roof, and that changed me.
Decades with him chipped away at my security, turning me into an anxious mess. The past five years have been about clawing my way back—one boundary at a time. I’ve stumbled plenty, but the wins have outweighed the losses lately. There’s a business concept called “fail fast,” and I’m trying to apply it here. The goal? Go in hopeful, be ready to fail fast, and dodge limerence before it takes hold. Only time will tell if my logic holds up. Dating in midlife is fun, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
With Jay, I was addicted to the emotional highs and lows. I convinced myself I could fix him—solve all his issues, including the deep-seated mommy and daddy wounds that practically defined him. Toward the end, my connection to him became less about actual love and more about proving my worth through the sheer force of trying to fix a grown-ass man. Maybe I knew there was no saving Ex, but if I could just fix Jay, maybe—just maybe—I could redeem myself for staying in yet another relationship that didn’t serve me.
Limerence thrives on uncertainty. At its core, it’s about longing and fantasy, not real love or intimacy.
Don’t mind me—I'm just dropping some free therapy bars over here.
The Butterfly Myth – Why That Exciting Feeling is a Red Flag
If you’ve ever watched a Hallmark movie or any rom com, you know as well as I do that butterflies are supposed to signal the excitement of new love. Historically, feeling those flutters after a first kiss meant you were on your way to happily ever after. I believed it, too—until recently. I used to think butterflies meant chemistry, the spark of something good. Turns out, they were my nervous system screaming, Run, girl!
The part of your brain that sends out butterflies? That’s the same part that signals danger, threats, and fear—aka anxiety’s home base, the amygdala. Science, baby. Yeah, all that talk about fluttering butterflies being a good thing? Straight-up bullshit. The real hallmark of a healthy relationship is a calm nervous system. But how do you figure that out in midlife, after years of being conditioned to believe butterflies meant love?
I felt those butterflies with Ex. And with Jay? They were so strong I practically levitated when he kissed me goodnight after our first date. I told myself I had it under control, that I was calm, that my peace bubble was intact. But here’s the thing—I am a terrible liar. I avoid it at all costs…except when it comes to lying to myself. And oh, how I can lie to myself—with the righteous passion and heat of a thousand suns.
Preparing My Heart For Love Again
They say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” They also say there’s a lesson to be found in every interaction—good, bad, or indifferent. And if you don’t learn that lesson the first time, don’t worry, life will generously offer you the same mistake on repeat until you finally get the message. In this scenario, “they” is your often-repeated mista…
Post-Jay I’ve been on plenty of first dates that gave me butterflies, and honestly, that’s one of the reasons I don’t go on many second dates anymore.
Breaking the Cycle
I went on a date recently (a Dating Diary for another day), and afterward, I felt something I wasn’t used to—calm. So much calm, in fact, that it unsettled me. No crazy fireworks, just peace and steadiness.
Have no fear. Date number two sets the butterflies free with a vengeance. This man wasn’t my typical physical type, but emotionally? Dead on. Broken and overflowing with audacity. And despite knowing better, I haven’t quite shut that door. I keep thinking about that initial calm, about how good it felt. And even now, as I write this, I hear myself making excuses. I can feel the limerence creeping in, and I know what I need to do—rip its head off like a praying mantis mid-mating. Time will tell if I uphold my own boundary.
Maybe I’m growing. Maybe I’m breaking my patterns. Maybe my boundary-setting skills are finally sticking. Maybe the therapy is kicking in alongside my long-lost self-preservation skills. Maybe my reaction to my latest romantic entanglement (let’s call him Mr. Big) is proof that I’m rewiring my brain.
Maybe—just maybe—this Midlife Rewrite is working in more ways than one.
So, I ask you, dear reader—have you noticed patterns in your own dating life? Because I have, and it turns out I’ve been dating the same guy with a different face. It’s not fate—it’s bad casting.
And those butterflies? Maybe it’s time we stop romanticizing them and start asking ourselves: Am I excited because I truly like this person? Or is my nervous system just recognizing a familiar disaster waiting to happen?