Older Women and Younger Men

High-Res Stock Photography: Portrait of mature manIt’s basically unanimous babes – everyone agrees that women should be with younger men.  They have the virility, vitality and stamina to be adorable and often wisdom toting playmates for an older woman.  Women in their forties have less tolerance for games, are often divorced, and have seen the other side of happily-ever-after. They are at the peak of their earning potential and sexual powers.  So I ask, why should we settle for men with flagging flags who are lacking in the passion and exuberance that puts the “test” in testosterone?  We shouldn’t.  This is a conundrum because older men are still chasing women in their 20’s and 30’s blinded to the patience and maturity that an older woman may bring to the equation and the affectionate wink that she may toss at his faltering sexual abilities and squishy body.

Then there’s my sister, who is married to a 70 year-old that demands sex at least three times a week.  How I wonder, as she laments her thrice weekly “chore”, did she get so lucky.  I’ve met older men whose sagging bodies and other pertinent parts have left me to consider celibacy as the lesser of two evils.  Remarkably, these same men, who are fifty pounds overweight, incapable of supporting their heft, will point out that I can look like a 30 year old super model if I lost 15 pounds.  Has the sun been darkened forever and when did insanity take ascendency? I guess the answer to that is in the Middle Ages.  Get a clue and pop a mercy Viagra buddy because your body is softer than my pet ferret and your sex is becoming indistinguishable from mine.

I dated a, gulp, 68 year-old recently, really believing that the vast age difference was insurmountable.  He told me that he didn’t think he would ever live with someone again, after two failed marriages, and boasted that a 30 year-old had written to him online, even though it was a money scam.  Seriously?  Am I really competing with some phantasm that exists in your pre-senile mind.  Maybe we should all embrace senility.  I’d love to live with that kind of selective illusion.

Even though we’re conditioned to believe that men age better than women and maintain an essence of virility, all bets are off if your junk doesn’t work, and my experience is that it rarely does.  Please, I’d rather get a gel manicure and have a massage on a Friday night than suffer you ill fated intentions that can only result in well – disappointment. And yet women are fighting over these gadfly gladiators as if they held the key to some mysterious happiness.  You’ve passed your sell by date buddy.  Listen, I’m as reasonable as the next.  If you’re willing to spend time and are an affable fellow who can make me laugh, I’ll hang with you.  But if you’re looking over your dislocated rotator cuff for the next young thang in a thong – keep shuffling towards the nearest exit.

As it happens a stunning young man in his early thirties has been calling me for months.  Perhaps I will finally return his calls and invite him over.  I don’t want to die without experiencing passion again.  Is that too much to ask?  I was sort of “saving” myself for a relationship but instead, have been exposed to the emotionally maimed, arrogant, self-satisfied egos of men in their late fifties and early sixties who really just aren’t up to the task. They stumble in the pervasive illusion that any woman will be happy to have their “male” attention and often seek to bolster their egos with younger or “desperate”older woman.

One sad 60 year-old, still in love with his 28 year old Korean girlfriend for whom he left his country, family, and bank account, lamented that “women don’t want older men anymore”. Welcome to my nightmare friend.  Maybe women have smartened up.

Seriously, in my experience, “dating” older men is a soggy path that leaves you wet but unsatisfied.  Get to the gym, infuse some Juvederm and get thee hunting for a younger man.  At least they still know how to make a woman feel like a woman.  Then there’s love, but that’s another blog.  Still don’t know anything about that.

I Dated Nosferatu and had Another Job Interview

I admit it – the shorter daylight hours – how the sun floats behind the pre-War Upper West Side New York buildings at 6:00 PM – rather than 8:00 PM – has me down.  Honestly, a plethora of circumstances – seemingly immutable – have gotten me more in the mood to pull the duvet over my head, after taking a healthy dose of sleeping pills.

My therapist tells me to have patience, not to project the future.  But my 12 year sojourn through a travesty of dating and poor job choices have left me at the crossroads of nowhere and how did I get here?  I know that life presents challenges, but I’ve bottled enough lemonade to serve the Upper East Side community where I live, until the Second Avenue subway is finished.  I’m more excited about the subway since I anticipate increased property values and an easier commute – much easier.

So after a notable absence from the dating world, I dipped my cursor in the playing field and posted a personal ad. If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it.  I’ve met a number of eligible men recently who attracted me to varying degrees.  One was a libidinous 32-year old – definitely hot – but he wanted sex basically in the office where I was working for a brief stint.  Then the equally libidinous Columbia professor who wanted sex after offering up diner and somewhat stimulating conversation for six hours.   There was the sexy photographer who bore a resemblance to Harrison Ford, but he was HIV positive and wanted to date only in that pool.  I weathered these disappointments with humor and equanimity.  I responded to more ads.  I went out again with few expectations.  Then I met Nosferatu – a pleasant man whom I suspect lied about his age, who is divorcing a lovely woman because – well he never really explained that.  We shared a hamburger, think about retirement and the failing economy, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything but his skinny, bony, pasty hands. These were not hands that I would welcome into my bed, or anywhere.  Chemistry?  Zero.  Naturally, Nosferatu is devoted and wants to prove that he is a worthy contender for my heart’s throne.

How, I ask myself, do I turn away someone who so generously is offering an ear and nascent devotion? I told Nosferatu that I was interested in friendship, which he accepted as encouragement.  Am I asking too much?  Never one to fall in love, or lust easily, I’ve at least known the thrill of mutual attraction.  Is it time to get a bone density screening and shuffle off with bony hands?  Divorce has taught me that it’s better to be alone than with the wrong man.  I need to remind myself of this when I’m alone watching some patented network fare, wondering if I should settle down with Ben & Jerry or send out another resume.

I knew that life had rough patches, I just thought that they, like everything else, ended.  This recent expanse seems intolerable.

And I had another job interview today.  My interviewer waited until I’d driven over an hour before telling me that the salary was 55K.  The last time I entertained a salary in that range was my early 30’s.  Yet I need a job.  I enjoyed a 2 – hour rush hour commute where I debated the pros of accepting such a job. Surely I can earn as much doing something else without the laborious commute.  Can’t I?

Life lobs curve balls at your head, I think but I am determined to remain positive.  Surely a better opportunity for me is just around the corner.  So I’ll send out another resume, stay limber at the gym, take some boxing lessons to address my escalating aggression and wait for a better day.  It could be tomorrow.

Weekend Break: Looking for a Job or Losing my Sanity Which will Happen First?

I believe that my journey across the divide can comfort, perhaps inspire, others in similar situations.  People have been discombobulated, disenfranchised and marginalized during this economic downturn, or shall I say, collapse.  MBA’s, PHD’s, fraternize with interns as they grasp, once again, the first rung of a ladder that they’d climbed successfully only years before.  One’s involvement with life is defined in part by their contribution.  Psychic income is a powerful motivator.  But what have we been contributing to – a grossly enlarged golden parachute for C level executives?  Have we created better lives or working environments for ourselves or our children?

Romney fattened his pockets and fed his children through dismantling companies after burdening them with impossible debt, taking his profits and moving on. Great article: http://tinyurl.com/cmqv7t6. I thought that we created in America.  I thought that creation was part of the American Dream.  As long as stocks rise and prices are inflated, we’re all happy, right?  But when we sit back with a glass of Scotch or chilled martini what do we behold?  Have we created art?  Have we contributed to the sustainability of the American Culture, or are we halfway to Prada, or Blahnik to festoon the visible signs of our collective looting?

These issues are too complex for me.  I know that I’m a talented businesswoman who has played a large role in building several businesses and that I shouldn’t be fretting over where my next gig will come or when it will come.  How does one circumnavigate the pitfalls without compromising their beliefs?

Still when all the debates have been debated and the talking heads are silent, I’d rather be browsing online for a ticket to Paris and discussing Thanksgiving plans with my partner.  Maybe we’ve all settled for less.  And therein lies the difference – the flaw in the equation that doesn’t add up when we take a moment to review our life.

Day Seven of Sixty Searching for a Job or Losing my Sanity; Which will Happen First?

I had a job interview yesterday morning.  I was interviewed by a surly, egotistical “VP” who was approximately 12 years-old.  May I say that my resume was vetted and that I passed two tests before they moved me along the employment chain to the goal of the first interview.

I had the immediate uncomfortable feeling that he had dismissed me based on age discrimination.  I am a forty-something year-young professional.  I’d done my homework, had studied their history, case studies, networks.  This #6 rated faster growing company had a small and narrow office space framed by two windows at either end of the office.  The windows were extremely dirty and covered with the frenzy and grime that Manhattan can generate while accomplishing all that is accomplished within her parameters.  My prospective employer slouched during the entire interview and seemed genuinely disinterested in a candidate that they had spent a lot of time and money to qualify.  I presented him with a partial list of my agency contacts and accounts that I’ve been cultivating.  When I asked if I would have the opportunity to continue with the interviewing process he said yes and that I would be meeting with the General Manager next.

I returned to my home office, relieved and encouraged and fired off an email thanking him and the recruiter for their time, reiterating why I would be the best candidate.  This morning I received a form e-mail stating that despite my impressive background they had decided not to pursue my candidacy.  Age discrimination?  I wrote back that I would appreciate additional feedback.  None was forthcoming.

I donned my pink boxing gloves and went to the gym where I vented my frustration with a combination of boxing and kick boxing moves.  How did we come to the point where we, as a culture, accept such rudeness as the norm?  I believe that I was entitled to a response and some constructive criticism.  Perhaps they had no criticism.  Perhaps I was highly qualified for the job but they wanted someone younger, blonder, sexier.

Searching for the right job in this slumbering economy is arduous and deflating.  Ultimately it boils down to attraction, like anything else.  Either a person feels that they want to work with you, or they don’t.  Qualifications, contacts, experience, don’t necessarily matter in this economy.  The candidates who are passed over are possibly lumped into Romney’s 47% who feel entitled to government aid, don’t want to pull their weight.

So I’m on to my next interview, my next contact, my next application.  I answered an ad for the OWN network today.  Now that would be a dream job.  I could participate in a vision and enterprise that deeply resonates with my core beliefs.

I’m deserve to have a challenging job that inspires me.  That was supposed to be a part of the smudged American Dream.

Day Five: Sixty Days Job Searching or Losing My Sanity which will come First?

The right brain cells collided at the right time and voila! – cognition.  A large company, think affiliated with Richard Branson- I can say no more – has viewed my polished resume and cover letter, has sent me a psychological test and upon satisfactory completion, another test – a small version of a GMAT or some such – and I passed.  I have been escorted from the void of anonymity and ushered  to the heady realm of possibility.  I scored an interview for Monday morning.

Remaining positive is crucial, essential.  Searching for a job and a relationship in New York can erase the hard drive of the most dedicated and stalwart individual.  I will grasp and savor my victories where I find them. It is essential that I ignore the voices that chatter about running my own company at this point, fame as an author, and of course, can I seriously still not have met a man that I can tolerate?  Seriously?  I did divorce 12 years ago.  Surely these drek ridden years slogging through first dates, blind dates, unexpected sightings at neighborhood places and the attendant blasphemous expectations that demoralize the best of us – surely – I should be further along.

The facts are that these are the worst of times.  Many people are suffering, struggling and losing ground daily.  I am still ensconced in my comfortable UES apartment.  I still afford some trinkets that lighten my mood and my wallet.  I have some friends who are seriously rooting for me or will just be happy when I’ve stopped complaining.   I can get to the gym and punch a bag with my pink boxing gloves.  And I enjoy the Bravo “Reality” shows while I cycle furiously on the stationary bike.  My insomnia has been offset by my ability to sleep in and post my resumes later in the morning.  My cats assure me that they enjoy spending more time with me.  And I can share my experiences, strength and hope with you, dear reader.

I comfort myself with the belief that the sheer enterprise and vast dynamism that defines New York puts me at an advantage.  There is an employer who will value my humor, dedication and experience.  And dare I believe, even a man who will understand my gypsy soul, though it has long been grounded.  How does one compete with some of the best, brightest, youngest, most cutting edge talent in the world?  My answer – by believing in yourself.  I take a lot of media meetings as a sales woman, and I have a part-time job which has kept me from slipping over the edge.  I see people who are enjoying careers and advancement.  I believe that I have a similarly impressive skill set.  I’ve earned millions for my employers, surely I am employable and worthy of worthy companionship.

At an age when most people are settled and bemoaning the corrosive familiarity of their lives, partners, careers, I am forced to reinvent myself.  Just at the time that I want to kick back and troll travel sites with my partner and plan our next vacation in Vietnam or Venice, I am counting dollar bills and eating tuna fish sandwiches for dinner.  Now that I want to roll over in bed and stroke the chest of the man that I love, I inhale sweet warm cat breath and snuggle with my Persian cats.  Life is unexpected.  So I choose to expect the best. I’ve tried the alternative and almost wound up in Bellevue.  I have a choice, and I choose to face this challenge with confidence and courage.  I choose to grow strong at my broken places.

Day Three- Sixty Days A Job or my Sanity which will be First?

Day Three:  The headset for my phone is broken.  A few years ago I suffered nerve damage from clenching the phone betwixt my ear and hunched shoulder while tapping furiously on my keyboard, hoping to catch every word that the brand manager uttered.  This unhealthy position sustained over 10 years – at 13 hours a day – resulted in PAIN! Yes, I was a throbbing, pins and needles mess from the base of my skull through my torso and left hand.  My left index finger is still numb from the injury.  My goal is to replace one shoddy, plastic headset made in China, for another.  Apparently these gizmos last only about six months.

PC Richards sells me on a headset that they say is indestructible and made of hemp so it is guaranteed to last.  Either that or I can use it as a colorful bracelet after it has conked out.  I briskly navigate the walk from East 86th street to my apartment on East 93rd.  The headset does not fit into my phone port.  Anger fuels my return jog to PC Richards.  I am told that I need a micro chip converter that I can purchase at Radio Shack.  Radio Shack has never heard of such a device and they sell me a cheap, plastic headset that I had wanted to avoid in the first place.  I return my original purchase to PC Richards, now angry that I made three trips and was misadvised during each sojourn.  Another brisk job back to my apartment where the head Day Three:  The headset for my phone is broken.  A few years ago I suffered nerve damage from clenching the phone betwixt my ear and hunched shoulder while tapping furiously on my keyboard, hoping to catch every word that the brand manager uttered.  This unhealthy position sustained over 10 years – at 13 hours a day – resulted in PAIN! Yes I was a throbbing, pins and needles mess from the base of my skull through my torso and left hand.  My left index finger is still numb from the injury.  My goal is to replace one shoddy, plastic headset made in China, for another.  Apparently these gizmos last only about six months.

PC Richards sells me on a headset that they say is indestructible and made of hemp so it is guaranteed to last.  Either that or I can use it as a colorful bracelet after it has conked  out.  I briskly navigate the walk from East 86th street to my apartment on East 93rd.  The headset does not fit into my phone port.  Anger fuels my return jog to PC Richards.  I am told that I need a micro chip converter that I can purchase at Radio Shack.  Radio Shack has never heard of such a device and they sell me a cheap, plastic headset that I had wanted to avoid in the first place.  I return my original purchase to PC Richards, now angry that I made three trips and was misadvised during each sojourn.  Another brisk job back to my apartment where the headset works, rather badly.  The volume is insufficient and I need an engineer to explain how the ear piece can be affixed to my right ear.  Two hours after the start of my day I am ready to call brand managers, secure appointments, send media kits and furiously browse job openings.

I vacillate between confidence and despair.  I ignore the commission only jobs.  Twenty years in the work force does not qualify me as an intern.  I’d like to meet the genius that created commission only.  This infuriates me because sales requires tremendous skill, savvy, and excellent verbal and written skills.  Whoever deemed that this time and effort should be donated?  I wonder, do they work for free?

Several hours later the pain in my head is not a consequence of the headset but anxiety.  I go to the gym, passing the ASPCA on the way.  I stop to commune with the cats who lounge gracefully in the window, like prostitutes in Amsterdam.  Everyone is looking for something.  I wish that I could adopt more cats, but I am considering a $4.00 falafel for dinner which suits my current budget.  I work the stationary bike on a high tension setting for 50 minutes before producing my pink boxing gloves and rush to the punching bag, which has been removed.  My ill humor and pent up aggression are not mollified or amused.  I am trying to be productive and remain positive, I need to punch something.  I saunter into a busy room where people are repelling themselves from the wall, lifting weights, and there is my punching bag, laying like a beached manatees across the floor while an enthusiastic woman heaves it to a standing position and pushes it against the wall.  Okay, maybe I can punch her in the head.

I need to get a trainer, some weird shit is going on and I want to be part of it.  I want to learn how to use all of the available tools.  Here’s to another round of resumes, punch – punch – here’s to another round of interviews and hearing that I’m overly qualified, under qualified, or that my hair is the wrong color – punch – punch – slam – here’s to another day on the job trail.  Knockout!set works, rather badly.  The volume is insufficient and I need an engineer to explain how the ear piece can be affixed to my right ear.  Two hours after the start of my day I am ready to call brand managers, secure appointments, send media kits and furiously browse job openings.

I vacillate between confidence and despair.  I ignore the commission only jobs.  Twenty years in the work force does not qualify me as an intern.  I’d like to meet the genius that created commission only.  This infuriates me because sales requires tremendous skill, savvy, and excellent verbal and written skills.  Whoever deemed that this time and effort should be donated?  I wonder, do they work for free?

Several hours later the pain in my head is not a consequence of the headset but anxiety.  I go to the gym, passing the ASPCA on the way.  I stop to commune with the cats who lounge gracefully in the window, like prostitutes in Amsterdam.  Everyone is looking for something.  I wish that I could adopt more cats, but I am considering a $4.00 falafel for dinner which suits my current budget.  I work the stationary bike on a high tension setting for 50 minutes before producing my pink boxing gloves and rush to the punching bag, which has been removed.  My ill humor and pent up aggression are not mollified or amused.  I am trying to be productive and remain positive, I need to punch something.  I saunter into a busy room where people are repelling themselves from the wall, lifting weights, and there is my punching bag, laying like a beached manatees across the floor while an enthusiastic woman heaves it to a standing position and pushes it against the wall.  Okay, maybe I can punch her in the head.

I need to get a trainer, some weird shit is going on and I want to be part of it.  I want to learn how to use all of the available tools.  Here’s to another round of resumes, punch – punch – here’s to another round of interviews and hearing that I’m overly qualified, under qualified, or that my hair is the wrong color – punch – punch – slam – here’s to another day on the job trail.  Knockout!

Day Two of Sixty Which will come first Job or Loss of Sanity?

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Day two blooms with promise.  I’d received a mini psychological test on Friday evening from a potential employer.  Apparently now it isn’t enough that you have an impressively structured resume and cover letter, there are now batteries of tests that you are asked to complete before you are hustled along the employment chain to the goal of the face-to-face interview.

Well I have to pay my therapist more money because I passed the psychological test.  One never knows where the pitfall may be lurking.  I was asked to identify character traits that I feel others want me to possess and then identify the traits that I feel that I do, indeed, have.  I didn’t ponder hidden meanings or assumptions.  I quickly and easily identified the two sets of questions with honesty.  That’s all I have and this is who I am.  The gurus who assembled the test apparently deemed me worthy of further examination.  I congratulate myself and all therapeutic aids, books, affirmations, meditations, that have contributed to the successful completion of this challenge.  I am hustled along the cyber assembly line to a mini-GMAT.  I have twelve minutes to complete 50 questions.

I am a multi-tasker by nature or environment, I can’t quite decipher the genesis of this propensity, so I set some onions to brown, feed the cats, and sit at my desk to apply myself.  The strategic thinking presented as word puzzles are a breeze.  The relationships of drawn figures and sequences give me pause.  I have no sense of direction, may I say that now?  This means that I am spatially challenged and couldn’t find Queens on a map of New York.  Of course, who would want to?  So I apply myself with diligence and confidence.  I am asked not to use a calculator for the math puzzles so I comply with reticence wondering if self-sabotage has long been a part of my DNA.  And then, have the other applicants assiduously complied, or have I placed myself at a disadvantage?

I click send, hoping that this simple action will reassemble my life and usher in a new phase with a stimulating new job.  I need to be active, seriously.  I need the stimulation of an interesting career challenge or an extended trip to Europe.  Hmm, since I am also completing my 2011 taxes late, I know, I realize that the extended European tour a la Eva Peron, is not in my immediate future.

Satisfied with having accomplished the most recent phase in this job search, I go to media bistro to mine new job opportunities.  I research the hiring manager on LinkedIn, hoping for an insight, an edge.  I research the company’s website if the name is given.  I align my experience with their job search. I refine my cover letter and have whizzed through three applications when I smell burning onions.  My economical dinner has singed and I now have crispy onions to tempt my flagging appetite.

I take Advil to ease the pain at the site of a root-canal earlier this afternoon.  I’m looking forward to the conclusion of Bachelor Pad.  It’s unapologetic mindless fare that makes me laugh.  Tonight former contestants will air their grievances.  Well pick a number and join the line.  I wish that I had such an outlet.

My root-canal pre-empted the gym, but I will be taking my boxing gloves and gear to Asphalt Green on the Upper East Side tomorrow.

For today, I’ve done what I can and will reward myself accordingly – with a burnt dinner and Reality TV. Is it just me?  I was hoping for something more.

Sixty Days Searching for a Job or Losing My Sanity – Which will come First?

For those of us who rely on the structure of adult underpinnings like employment, family, children, aka, the human race, it is devastating to be cast adrift finding oneself without the security of these normal adult structures.

Who am I and what will I be without these guideposts to illumine my way?  One can attempt to write the great American novel, but there’s that pesky little problem of mortgage or rent that asserts itself every thirty days or so.  Travel would be an enriching pastime if you’re not dissuaded by the soul shattering consequences of increased debt and financial obliteration. Volunteer work is a laudable pursuit if you can stop your shaking hand from popping another Xanax as you proofread your LinkedIn profile for the millionth time.

The chasm seems vast and deep and even the comforting new jobless rate of 8.1% can’t stop you from desperately wanting to roll over every morning, pulling the covers over your head, as more worthy mortals slog off to a job and a regular paycheck.

This blog is about my commitment to remain positive, engaged and proactive during a time of crisis that has many of us considering careers as dog walkers or baristas and feeling that we’d be lucky to be paid for our services.  I’m underemployed and have officially raided and sold my jewelry collection and need to find a more substantive way to supplement my income. I’m grateful that I was obsessed with something that maintained value rather than something like say, shoes.  I even sued, and won, the former employer who fired me without cause when a $25,000 commission was due.

These are the times that define one’s character.  I feel like I’ve already been chiseled by Sondheim’s infamous blood thirsty butcher and don’t feel that I can withstand further definition.  How I will slog my way to the other side of safety with my sanity and self-esteem in tact is in God’s hands, because I no longer have a clue.  Anxiety induced loss of appetite has chiseled thirty pounds from my frame and I’m counting on lower food bills.

I’ve consulted with a plethora of bottom feeding companies who have sprung up with the promise of a free work force. And I’ve toured favorite Madison Avenue establishments to ask if they need sales help.  I figured that I could indulge my obsession with jewelry by working for a favorite designer, Alexis Bittar, but have just missed a recent hiring phase.

I’ve pondered the feasibility of propelling my pampered persians into the sluggish economy but I settle for cuddles and warm tongue lickings realizing that their qualifications are far inferior to mine, I think.

I’ve been hired for jobs and have then been told that there is a hiring freeze. I’ve been told that I am the right candidate and then heard that they are going with someone whom they feel has better contacts.  I’ve been asked if I can walk in the door with guaranteed accounts and if I can qualify and quantify those accounts. I’ve provided lists, contacts, references, past income figures, and enthusiasm.  What’s next guys, a pint of blood?

I’m struggling to scratch my way back into the belief in the American Dream, queasy that all is not well on Main street and frightened by the prospects of a corporate raiding President like Romney taking the reigns in November.  And I’m no longer mollified by the integral diligence of a partisan seeking cooperative gentleman like Obama.

So I’ve decided to conduct myself with dignity and clarity.  I pledge to respond to every reasonable and not so reasonable job application.  I will remain positive.  I will structure my days by working on the job that I do have, going to the gym, and pounding the cyber pavements of Media Bistro, LinkedIn, Career Builders and Craig’s list.  I shall leave no stone or contact unturned or untapped.  I will continue to value myself in the face of diminishing returns and believe that my experience and savvy will win the day with some luck.

I’ve weathered economic storms before, though not as fierce.  I believe in my talent and acumen and know that I will set shaking feet on yonder shore and once again have some mad money to spend with discretion.

So this is one voice joining the chorus of disenfranchised or just disgusted.  Keep believing in yourself and do the next right thing because  the greatest opportunity of your life can be one click away.

It’s a Dog’s Life

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Yes my therapist has oft made note of my flawed thinking.  It’s clearly ludicrous to feel that a shelter dog has a better life than I.  But tonight, the Lhasa Apso mix that I was supposed to adopt today, is living high, and I am mourning his loss, amongst others.

This dedicated cat lover has temporarily turned her affections to the canine species.  I still adore, cuddle, brush, over feed and spoil my persian cats.  But my semi-unemployed status, loss of my parents, divorced state, and impending mid-life blow-out, has left me craving something different.  How could I crave less at this point?  So my smart feet guided my addled head to the ASPCA where I fell in love with “Keith Richards”, a 10 year-old Lhasa Apso mix who coaxed immediate tears and an open, throbbing heart.  He needs a home, I thought.  Then, no one will adopt an older dog.  As a woman of a certain age seeking additional employment, and dare I voice it,….love in New York City, I identified with my canine counterpart.  I decided to take Keith Richards home.

The endless monotony of bureaucratic structures impeded my nascent love affair.  I’d gone to the ASPCA after the gym and was not carrying the proper identification, aka, photo ID, my gym picture didn’t cut the grade.  The shelter was closing in minutes and I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by asking them to wait, so I said I’d be back the next day to adopt Keith R.  He’ll further structure my life with daily walks, treats, training and love, I thought.  I walked across to my apartment imagining my better self standing in winds, rain and snow with a coat-clad Keith, oblivious to the elements, delighted only in each other.

I worked during the day waiting for the time that I’d go to adopt Keith.  Meanwhile I thought of the masculine hair ribbons and hip hair cuts that I’d use for his adornment.  At five-thirty, I entered the shelter with a fluttering heart, brandishing my driver’s license and proudly told the volunteer that I was there to adopt Keith Richards. An awkward and anguished pause ensued, while I continued to flash my photo ID.

“i’m sorry,” she said.  “Keith Richards has just been adopted.”

I felt numb as I rummaged through my bag searching for my receipt stuffed wallet to return my license to it’s rightful place.  I had fleeting images of how I’d planned to walk through Carl Schurz Park with a  perky Keith at my side.  I imagined feeding him dog treats, my cats refuse all treats just to annoy me, I think.  I’d carry him home if he got tired or place him in the fashionable zebra carrying bag that I’d picked out.

With a diminished heart and flagging feet, I took a second tour of the available dogs and there was Keith Richards, looking far happier than he had the day before.

“He’s still here.  Are you sure that he’s been adopted,” I asked reaching for my security blanket, photo ID.

“No, Keith is going to be featured on TV tonight on a segment for pets for adoption. He’s going home tomorrow.”

What beautiful words, I thought.  I wished that I were going home tomorrow.  Right now, home feels very far away.

Live a long and happy life, Keith Richards.  You will be missed.