When you are married, they call you Mrs.
When you are single, it’s Ms.
When you get an engagement ring, you’re known as somebody’s fiancee.
If you are in a gay relationship, you’re someone’s partner.
If you’re going with a college frat boy – they say you are pinned.
If you are dating different guys, they say you are playing the field.
If you are only dating one man – you are going steady.

But in the senior dating world, the labels can be quite different. Take a friend of mine, who, as of this writing, is 77 years old. She is dating a man who is 91. If she referred to him as her boyfriend, she thinks her grandchildren would howl with laughter. But, she explains, should she refer to him as her gentleman friend, she would feel like a stodgy old lady.

The 91 year-old boyfriend, too, says he feels young and spry when he refers to her as his girlfriend, although he often wonders if it isn’t politically correct – at his age – to say he has a lady friend.

Not long ago, a friend said she had a lovely man she wanted me to meet. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m seeing someone.” My friend who is my contemporary, knew exactly what I meant. But if I had said that to a person decades younger, they might have wondered if I had a vision problem.

One step beyond dating is living together. In days gone by, such a couple would be considered living in sin. But in the senior dating world, this is a perfectly acceptable way of life. For no other reason than when 2 people share the household expenses, there is more money to spend to go on cruises.

And what if you are living together only on weekends? I have a friend who lives part time with her significant other, as she refers to him, because, she explained, she can go to her own house whenever he got on her nerves!

I’ve dated somewhat. One man I labeled Cheap Bob because he considered going to Wendy’s as a perfectly acceptable dinner date. Another I referred to as Deaf Man because he never heard a word I said. Looking back, I wonder if he really couldn’t hear me, or was so used to tuning out whatever his wife talked about, that not responding to anything I said was just a habit! And the most accurate label I ever gave to a man was reserved for a gentleman who thought he could drive at night. Unfortunately, his vision was so impaired that he was really a danger on the road. My name for him became Near Death, and frankly, I only went out with him once – for obvious reasons. In retrospect, as far as I’m concerned, he was a “blind date” in more ways than one.

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Bea Lewis is the author of the recently published “A Widow’s Journey: How I Went From Loss to Learning to Moving On.” It is available on Amazon. com, both in the paperback and Kindle versions.

I must confess, I never cared much for brisket, the fatty part of the cow that for centuries Jewish home cooks have embraced for holiday dinners and celebrations.

Still, I knew – well before I became a widow – that in order to win the heart of a potential mate, significant other or lover, I would need to be a brisket-making maven. But, I wondered, where did this written-in-stone tradition come from? Especially since (these days) we are well aware that eating too much artery-clogging cholesterol should be off limits for any potential partner beyond a certain age.

According to legend, the tradition comes from the Eastern European “shtetls.” When a widow learned that a man in her town had lost his wife, she’d swiftly go to her stove to cook up a pot of care and concern. You could compare this activity to a fisherman who tosses his rod into the waters with the hope that he will reel in a big fluke or tuna.

The difference, however, between the fisherman and the widow who cooks a brisket, is that a fisherman can afford to be patient. But unlike the fisherman-who can sit and wait – speed is of the essence if the widow wants to beat out her competition. Even back during “shtetl” days, the ratio of widowed women to men was way out of balance. And today it’s even worse. In fact, a recent US census, reported that of the 13 million widowed-folk over the age of 65 – 11 million are women.

But why a brisket? Well, back in the olden days, when meat was scarce and expensive, bringing a brisket to the grieving widower meant that, when it came to his well-being, no expense had been spared. The money the widow spent on the meat was kind of like an investment we’d make in today’s world. It’s like the once-safe bet of purchasing a tax-free interest-bearing bond. It’s an even better idea, some would say, to invest in our children’s education with hopes that they will (and will be financially able to) take care of us in our old age.

While I now understand where this brisket-roasting tradition came from, I needed to know why the custom is so often referred to as the “Brisket Brigade.” I think I finally found the answer. One day, as I sunbathed in my backyard, a swarm of ants came crawling to feast on the crumbs I’d dropped on the patio from my oversized Dunkin’ Donuts muffin. They marched swiftly-methodically in lockstep formation – and knew exactly what they were doing. They were organized and determined, much like well-drilled soldiers who were out for the kill. These little guys knew (like the savvy widows of today) that the first in line had the best chance of beating out the others.

But these days, just bringing a widower a cooked brisket might not be enough to defeat the competition. You need an edge. A friend of mine who is a widower, told me recently that along with the directions about how to reheat his meal in a microwave, one widow had added her phone number along with a picture of herself that had (obviously) been taken decades earlier.

Since I don’t like making brisket (never did – never will), I guess I need to find another way to make my mark on a man. I could bake a batch of my marvelous nut-studded Jewish cookies called “mandelbread” (but, for the men who wear dentures, I would leave out the nuts).

If neither my cooking nor baking skills would fit the bill, I guess I will have to depend on my good looks, warmth, charm, wit, charismatic and fun-loving personality – to hopefully – win the heart of a very special man.

By: Bea Lewis (Lancaster)

Is it crazy that I didn’t want to clear out Ed’s closet? After all, wouldn’t any woman want an extra closet, so she wouldn’t have to stuff all her clothes and shoes into just one small space?

It took me about 6 months before I could even think about it. As long as I could see Ed’s jackets and slacks lined up so neatly – hanger–by-hanger – in his closet, I felt connected to him.

A friend told me that there are many men who would benefit from having some of his sweaters, his dress slacks and sports jackets. It’s sort of selfish, she said, to hang onto his belongings-especially those lovely, colorful Tommy Bahama shirts he so loved to wear.

My friend was right, but I just wasn’t ready to empty out his closet. Because if I did, I would have to face the harsh reality that Ed was gone-forever. And frankly, I didn’t think I could ever pass his empty closet without feeling terribly sad and missing him all over again.

Some friends, who are fellow-widows, cleared their husbands closets within days of the funeral. I know others who asked their relatives to do the job for them.

Still others – actually one other friend – told me that she felt safe whenever she sat on the floor of her husband’s closet, and smelled his clothes. At the time, I thought she was a bit weird. But who am I to judge anyone else’s timetable for getting past the oh-so-grim grieving stage.

Deciding when to do this job is akin to standing on the edge of a diving board, but not quite ready to jump into the pool. It’s that heart-pounding, fearful feeling that you know you have to do it, but what you really want is to turn around and go down the ladder and get safely back on the ground.

What motivated me to finally tackle this painful chore was the fact that friends were coming to visit, and I needed to make room for their belongings. This was my long-overdue incentive to at least get started, and begin to take the slacks and shirts off the hangers and the sweaters and sweatshirts out of his drawers.

But what if I give one of his favorite sweaters away, and then later regret that I should have held onto them for a little bit longer? How could I so freely toss out his navy blue cashmere, double-breasted jacket that he proudly wore at our grandson’s bar mitzvah?

I must say, however, that there were a few items I was glad to toss out. For example, that his too-tight-fitting black shirt, which I absolutely detested. I used to think that he wore it just to annoy me. (Oh, how I’d love to have that “annoyance” back again!) I was also glad to get rid of the flashy ties he loved to wear, and-oh yes-the frayed jeans that were so baggy in the rear.

Grief counselors tell us that the process can be agonizing because each little item we toss out signals memories of when and where it was worn. But several friends – who had been there before me – offered some suggestions that helped me cope with this most stressful experience. For example, before you being to sort and toss, get several boxes, permanent markers and garbage bags, they advised. Mark one box “donations,” another box for items your family will treasure and plenty of garbage bags for all the junk that accumulated over the years.

There will be, of course, some things that you will never want to part with. For example, I will always cherish the letters and cards we gave each other over the years. Ed had saved them in a box that he kept on a shelf in his closet. (From time to time, I would take these out of the container, read our inscriptions, and-with a bunch of tissues-have myself a good cry.)

Ed’s closet might be empty now, but my heart will be always filled with the wonderful memories of the things we did together, what we meant to each other, as well as all of the clothes that he used to wear.

(P.S. Bea is writing a book on her journey through widowhood.)