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.

A Shattering Realization

Romance is not a commodity that is guaranteed.  Nor can it be coaxed, coached, courted, or commanded  It alights, unbidden, on the breasts of the unsuspecting.  And I suspect that I shall never experience it again.

I’ve been a busy girl recently.  And all of my dating busyness has left me longing to hang with my girlfriends, gay friends, guy friends, my cats- anyone and anything that is not connected to the picked-over assortment of humanity that has presented itself as a potential romantic source.

A love coach has been courting my services.  She told me that healers don’t charge enough for their services.  Her fees range from 5k to 25k.  I think that establishes her firmly in the realm of someone who has a healthy respect for their services. She was offering a pittance for the sales person who was taxed with the responsibility of separating women from their money – all for a good cause – the fulfillment of a soul mate that we hear so much about.  I’ve dwelled many years amongst the imperfections of this creation and have spoken to a lot of people.  I haven’t met many who were living with, met, or who had otherwise engaged with the elusive soul mate creature – which I fear – is as mystical and unrealistic as the infamous unicorn.

One’s libido does calm down as one ages.  And even as I admire my fabulous, toned self, brimming with charisma and charm, I have to admit that I have always possessed a highly cultivated sexual selection process which has devolved into one that barely registers the opposite sex.  There was a foreign man, years ago, that awakened my desires and longing for a partner.  We met amidst the beauty of a soft autumnal Amagansett night and I was foolish enough to feel – soul mate?  I even dated a narcissistic  prof recently who briefly inflamed my staggering sex drive.  And there’s the 32 year-old that calls, voice brimming with testosterone and desire to recount his attraction to me and plan a visit to New York so that we can explore our mutual admiration.

I had rather hoped that I’d be looking into the eyes of my beloved at this point in my life.  I’d take in the craggy lines around his brows and labial folds.  Each crevice and indentation would be a memory that we’d shared, despaired over or had rejoiced in.  I’d imagined that his eyes would simply say, “home”.  Instead, I look into stranger’s eyes, framed by faces that are much older than the ones “advertised” in their dating profiles.  Seriously, men wouldn’t let women get away with such outrageous lying.  One man posted a pic of a muscular, tanned hunk, with blonde hair.  I didn’t recognize the middle aged, dark-haired, man spreading at the bar as the same creature.

The man that I dated last night hadn’t even bothered to dye his hair.  His pic must have been circa the 1990’s when he’d possessed some vigor and vitality.  So different from the tired, gray haired, overweight man who sat in my lobby, where I almost turned about face and retreated to my apartment upon visual contact. However, I pride myself on treating all with dignity, even those who in fact, do not posses dignity.  He was an affable fellow who shared a lengthy story of a libido that had destroyed his life, later in the evening.  It seemed that is career as an international consultant had taken him to Asia where he met and subsequently disassembled his life for a 28 year-old fashion designer.  He unapologetically walked out on his family, including two children, career, and moved to Shanghai, or such, I can’t remember, I was thinking about getting into bed with my cats at that point.  The much younger woman, as in criminally, what were you thinking your lecherous fool, took all of his money and invested it in her failing business, ignored him and five years later he returned to America, depleted, financially dissolved and heart-broken.  He loves her still.  I ask you, why is this man dating?  Oh, and he lives in a small one-bedroom apartment somewhere near the Whitestone bridge, don’t ask me for directions, with his son, a jazz guitarist.  He explained that he’s helping his son.  I wonder if the son is not helping the prodigal dad.

Then there was the Israeli physicist who lives in my building and whose acquaintance I mad in the midst of the Hurricane Sandy madness.  He took my number and called in multiples of five, leaving but one message in ten.  We managed to have a salad together one evening.  Then it occurred to me that the physicist was calling and rambling about physics and Israel, way to seduce a lady, with the hopes that he’d bore me into submission and I’d just invite him up to my apartment to end his monologues on quantum mechanics.

Of course there was another lost puppy whose wife died and who’d made a career of playing the sympathy card. I met him for the first time, after several long conversations, at the Metro North station on 125th street.  He’d trained into Manhattan with a twenty dollar bill and parked himself on my couch.  After hours of talking and boredom that bordered on paralysis, we went to the cheapest Chinese restaurant that I knew of and ate dinner.  He submitted his plea then that he couldn’t face the commute back to his friend’s apartment where he’d been living for one year and asked if he could crash on my couch. Horrors, one and all.  I’ll spare you the tale of the Harvard graduated engineer with fewer social skills than my cats, who was adamant that I view his before and after pictures on Facebook.  For some reason it was critical that I see  the proof of his body with an additional 60 pounds.  What did he want, some Facebook commendation?

Oh but I must add the 65 year old- way too old, yuck, psychologist, who grabbed my hand at the entrance to my building and placed it over his erection.  What buddy, you didn’t want to waste a Viagra?  I mean is this really what is circulating masked as available men?

As I back away from the financial abyss with God’s help, more rants on that later, I actually thought that it was time that I consider spending what remains of my years on earth with a witty, intelligent, soulful, and sexy-to-me, mate.  I get why men date younger women.  Who wouldn’t choose the passion and enthusiasm that youth offers rather than the gray haired disillusion that has presented itself at my doorstep?  Seriously, if you’re putting yourself out there, put yourself together first.  Don’t be crashing with your son, brother, Zen monk or other.  Have the decency to have put the past in the past and don’t expect sympathy votes for the last lady love that sucked you dry and spit you out.  I have my own horror stories to tell.

I had rather hoped that life would offer more than this monotony of loneliness where the deepest empathy and touch that I experience is with my cats.  I’m more involved in my hobbies and interests.  I no longer have to call my gal pal and ask her to coax me from my apartment as I had just a few months ago.  So overcome with depression and fear, I couldn’t find a reason to exit my apartment, or to live for that matter.  I’m much better now, but is this seriously all that there is?  Something, a la the brilliant Jack Nicholson movie, has to give.  So I thought that I’d never receive another job offer.  I just have to have another shot at love, don’t I?

Even Nosferatu has stopped calling or has been trapped in the depths of the Disney bubble, as he called it.  I’m not lighting any candles over here in his absence.  It’s just, you know, with another holiday approaching, without my mom, without a partner, I feel somehow cheated.  I believe that life is about love and connections.  I believe that we are here to learn to love, giving and receiving, at least that, I feel, is my lesson.  Boy, have I failed or what?  Does this place me at the back of the karmic line?  Will I reincarnate as a bat or something?

And finally, is romance just an urban myth?   Perhaps it’s all some hoax to keep the world populated.  What do you think?

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.

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.