The Tuesday Girl

Tuesdays Are for Me: Chronicles of the Midweek Girlfriend

At 59, I’ve re-entered the dating pool (again) —and let me tell you, the water is lukewarm, a little murky, and there might be something floating in it.

Still, I persist.

What I’ve come to realize is that while I’d like to be…I am not the Weekend Woman. No, those coveted Friday-to-Sunday slots are clearly reserved for women who have—how shall I put this?—secured their position through performance-based loyalty.

Weekends, I’ve come to suspect, are for the women they’re already sleeping with. The ones who have “earned” that premium calendar real estate by crossing, or uncrossing, a threshold I, apparently, have not.

I, my friends, am a Tuesday Woman.

For six months, I dated a man—handsome, wealthy, incredibly charming. Think bald Clooney vibes, retired and an actual Mercedes. We had great conversations, laughter, huge chemistry, connection… on Tuesdays. Maybe a Thursday if he was “free.” But never—not once—Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.

One night, over dinner (Tuesday, obviously), he dropped this gem: “Dating apps are like a slot machine. Every time I open it up—boom! Another desperate, attractive woman appears. It’s addictive.”

He said this with a straight face, in between bites of ahi tuna, like he was describing his morning Wordle habit.

And here’s the kicker: I’m not desperate. I’m not struggling. I’m high-value. I’m attractive, thin, smart, emotionally available (with occasional sarcasm), and I have my own income, my own home, and my own plane ticket. I didn’t sleep with him, not because I’m prudish, but because I wanted to be sure.

Apparently, Tuesday is the testing ground. It’s where they date the “possibilities”, the maybes, the intriguing women who have the nerve to set boundaries. And weekends? That’s for the women who’ve already said yes, who’ve locked in their slot on the calendar and in the bedroom.

It’s like a weird Hunger Games of attention and availability. Only instead of arrows and dystopian jumpsuits, we’re navigating “seen at 4:32 PM” text receipts and second-tier date nights at mid-tier Italian restaurants.

But here’s the twist: I like Tuesdays. Tuesdays are honest. They’re quiet enough to hear the truth, and calm enough to see someone clearly. I’ll keep showing up, mascara on and heart open—not because I need to, but because I want to. Because the right man, the one who sees me for the amazing, self-sufficient, whip-smart woman I am, won’t need a calendar to decide I’m worth his weekend.

So no, I’m not giving up. I’m still dating. I’m still hopeful. And guess what?

I’ve got a date this week.
It’s on Tuesday.

Of course.

Yours in faith and fun, and still blessed to be…

Free and Roaming