■ Women can’t stand it when a formerly coupled male becomes a contented, happy solo, writes Barry Rosenberg.

So, it was with my long-time buddy Jayne sometime after the death of my partner.

Following lengthy debate, Jayne eventually succeeded in dragging me towards a world in which she was a seasoned pro and I a total virgin.

The major online dating site back then was Match.com.

She explained how it worked; how she would initially face-to-face with a date: Never give out surname or home address.

Choose a meeting place with others present – a pub or café – outside your neighbourhood. Don’t overdress.

Also, this being Philadelphia, Jayne (as all her female mates) packed heat.

Yes, standard equipment besides the mini-spray canister of breath freshener and a small packet of valiums was a small “ladies” gun stashed in her handbag. God bless America.

“Now, sit down and write a brief bit about yourself,” she demanded.

Grumbling, I did so. I didn’t like what came out, undertook a rewrite. Then another. And another.

Look, I’m pretty accomplished writing about Barry, except that during my years as a freelance magazine author my articles, many of which spoke more about me than the purported subject, might run a few thousand words.

Online dating, Jayne informed me, required a somewhat abridged depiction.

When finally I came up with what I considered an adequate synopsis of my wants/needs, reading over my shoulder she let out a groan.

Parsing each line, she read aloud: ‘“Desired female traits: 55-plus, smart, fit.” Fine. Although knowing you, you’ve neglected to mention long legs (Jayne herself is a shorty).

“But what gets me is this: “Absolute no-nos: smoker/drinker, cosmetics, phone freak, addicted shopper, dumbing-down Dora…”’

Jayne tokes the weed, tipples the grape, shovels on a fair quantity of face gunk, smartphone is permanently sealed to her palm, loves to cruise the fashionable shops.

A strong-willed/take-no-shit feminist herself, she harrumphed: “It’s you men who force women to dumb down, so give a girl a break!”

Score one for the sisterhood.

I never did go on Match.com. Nor any other dating site. But what the exercise did was help get me in touch with a close mate I’d reckoned I knew pretty well, but turned out I hadn’t much of a clue: me.

Humans lie big time to ourselves, and I was hardly immune from such infirmity.

We’re afraid to probe deep inside in case we stumble upon some horrendous deviance, so we keep those inner wardrobe doors locked and chiffonier drawers sealed.

Fortunately, by this time I’d done enough meditation and mindpower practise, preceded by a few years’ indulgence in psychedelics, to quell any fear of running into the devil dancing between my ears.

Every year, I not only fine-tooth comb the list of personal deviances I’d composed back then, I dig within to bring to light whatever new hidden truths might be lurking.

And so, I recently uncovered what looked to be the scariest personal condition ever: my energy level, balance and ability to perform once-common, taken-for-granted physical and mnemonic feats just ain’t what they used to be.

At 88, I was growing old.

Following the initial shock of such truth’s acceptance, my self-esteem plummeted markedly.

I spent the first few weeks of ’26 semi-paralysed by my new, and obviously permanent, downturn.

One morning on my daily 10km walk, I happened to pass an outdoor café chokka with senior types. I paused and took in the conversations.

Every single dialogue centred around “organ recitals” – body/mental ailments, docs, pills and ops – as well as pointing out others of their ilk currently on, or recently having abdicated, deathbeds.

Their words shocked me out of my fetid self-pity.

I reminded myself not only am I already well past the age number I’d long hoped to achieve, but due to years spent meditating and taking care of my body I can still touch my toes, kick above my head and remember all the words to Stairway to Heaven.

Best of all, I can check out an attractive female, feel a warm glow in my chest, and yet, have not the slightest urge to swipe right or left.