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.


What Two Octogenarians Taught Me About Love

I hadn’t expected to find myself divorced and childless at 47.   Nor could I have anticipated that my 85 year-old stepfather’s devotion to my mother over the past twenty-one years would encourage me to review my choices and the men that had led me to this barren impasse.  I counted how often Bob extolled my mother’s beauty and sex appeal. During our visits he told me how he missed holding her since his recent move to the Paramus Veteran’s Home and I thought that my profusion of golden red hair and curvy Italo-American frame commanded at least as much admiration as my attractive 82-year-old petite blonde mother. However, instead of collecting verbal poems, I was cuddling my Himalayan cat who recently abandoned me and decided to sleep in the living room during the languid summer months.

I went to a hypnotist. “ Please,” I said, “purge my negative thoughts.”  I particularly enjoyed the session where he told my subconscious mind that I was intelligent, creative and beautiful.  I deserved love, intimacy and fulfillment.  His words were such a shock to my battered ego that I went home and vomited 7 times and then burned with a 102-degree fever.  Still, I thought that I had gotten something, other than nausea, from the session.  I needed to hear that. I listened to Louise Hay, downloaded pod casts from hayhouseradio.com.  I adopted her affirmation, “I’m beautiful and everyone loves me.” I complained to an artist friend whose personal freedom inspired and frightened me that the last man with whom I shared a combustible chemistry lived in Ireland and was I feared, still married, though he had told me he was separated.

My hypnotherapist was also a medium. I asked him if I’d hear from my Irish, almost boyfriend.

“I’m getting that there’s some deception there.  I think he’s still married.”  I went to Peter to break the pattern of deception in relationships.  I did not want to hear  that he thought there was deception yet again at work, wrecking my romantic fantasies.

“Are you sure?  Check again.”  I explained that he felt like the man that I was meant to be with.  If not him then who and when? I asked.
“Have you put out the call for your soul mate?” Peter asked.

Like some kind of cosmic email?  “How do you do that?”  I asked. Somehow I wasn’t aligning my energies with the cosmic vibration that resonated with love and happiness. That was hard to do when my friends were basically on a suicide watch for me.

“Believe in your heart.  When you’re ready, put out the call to him. But you have to be ready.”

I went under hypnosis again at which time Peter asked me to imagine a fire.  I would use this flame to burn the negative memories, emotions and situations that no longer served me.  I watched the flames sizzle as I mentally tossed in my childhood — that covered a lot but could basically be summed up in one word– horror.  Next I tossed my marriage, ex- in laws, bad work situations and relationships that didn’t serve me.  I watched the burning columns reach 10 feet, 20 feet and blot out the moon.  Eventually they expended their fury and lay sooty ashes on the cool midnight sand.  Peter prompted and I agreed that my past was gone.  He then asked me to open a beautiful new book.  That was my new life. He asked me to name and describe my new book of life.  “A Life of Service, Purpose and Love,” I answered further describing the violet cover and glinting, iridescent colors.

After twenty sessions at $220 per, my hypnotist declared me resistant to change.  I told my friends that I was demoted to the class for the spiritually challenged.  He reduced his rate to $150.  He said that we needed to eradicate my fear of change and erase the programming that I needed to earn my family’s love before I could accept a man’s love.  So in another hypnotic state, Peter struggled to remove the ties that kept me single.  He employed neurolinguistic programming.  He asked me if I was ready to let go of my fear of changing.  Was I ready to release the expectation that I could only find love once I experienced familial support and nurturing? My conscious self was down with the plan but my subconscious was attached to my misery.  Peter asked me to remember a time when I’d felt loved and happy.  When he patted my right hand the feelings would intensify.  He then told me to remember the panic associated with chasing people who couldn’t love me.  This time, as he patted my left hand, the feelings intensified.  Eventually he was rapidly tapping my left, then my right hand.  My overloaded synapses began to reel.  Peter ended each segment with a series of tapings on my right hand, as I focused on feeling content and loved.  I would remember these feelings each time I tapped my hand.  I felt literally tapped out.

I questioned whether I was resistant to change.  A desultory review of my romantic liaisons confirmed that I was a serial monogamist – with myself.  Like my parent’s marriage, I found that I participated exclusively in relationships that were mired in deceit.  I believed that my family didn’t want me and perhaps I was recreating these experiences with men as a way to heal or learn.  Peter regressed me to the in utero state.  He asked me what I was experiencing.  I said that it was dark and inhospitable.  I felt movement, tumultuous upheavals.  I thought that someone was trying rather diligently to dislodge me.

I’d been told that my mom became aware of my father’s illness after he collapsed from congestive heart failure when I was ten. But the recent hypnotic memories prompted me to ask my mom again when she realized that my dad was critically ill.  Then the truth was laid between us as we sat dining at Nicks, an Upper East Side local family-style restaurant. My mom discovered that my father was seriously ill when she was pregnant with me, her third child.

“How dare you saddle me with another child when you’re a sick man?  When were you going to tell me? I never would have married you…” my mom told me about her reaction to the news.  I forgave her honesty, and realized that her cognitive impairment allowed her to speak the truth after so many years.  Her unhappiness made it almost impossible to nurture me.  But she did meet Bob after my father died and he was able to love her in ways she couldn’t love herself or her children.

Their courtship was defined by their mutual love of poetry and a political battleground that subsided as my mom, a Republican, confessed – years-too-late, that she was sorry that she had voted for W in the last two elections.  Bob had fought in WWII and regaled her with his battle stories and reminisces about the day the Japs attacked Pearl Harbor.  They took long drives from my mom’s comfortable home in Marlboro, New Jersey, where Bob remarked that he knew all of the back roads – a result of his training in recon.  He greeted the farms that were their local landmarks.  They stopped for lunch.   They regularly visited a local pond to feed the ducks.  Their pleasures were simple – their situation more complicated.  Bob, who had been born to a wealthy family and who had called One Fifth Avenue his childhood home, had developed a severe gambling problem.  He came to my mother with a full heart but an empty bank balance.   She weighed her options and his 6’2” frame and opened herself to his courtly ways and manners.  He provided the emotional balance and ballast that she craved. My mom supported him and took him to the top New York oncologists when he was diagnosed with cancer weeks after I separated from my then husband.  They sustained and nurtured each other.  They shared a love for poetry and music  – fragments of poetry and Cole Porter provided the accompaniment to their unique duet.  The last time I visited him, he quoted Rudyard Kipling’s Gunga Din, and cradled his teddy bear.

My fear of abandonment, carefully nurtured during my disruptive childhood had prepared me for  – well – abandonment.   I learned to abandon myself by ignoring the gnawing intuitive flashes that warned against my pattern of involvement with unavailable men.  I trampled my urge to cancel my wedding two weeks before the scheduled nuptials.  I also convinced myself that my last companion was a probable life partner.  Even though I had initially decided that he was engaging, talented and would be a good entrée to the dating scene but not, husband material.  My hypnotist patiently told me that I wasn’t ready to meet my partner before I  learned to live with and trust myself.

“You won’t trust him because you’ll be too afraid that he’ll abandon you and you’ll ruin it,” he said.

Peter told me to enter a room where there were two seats.  I would occupy one and facing me would be people who had wounded and hurt me.  He assured me that they would be restrained. I was free to experience the closure and emotional release that I had been denied.  Peter encouraged me to demonstrate physically, verbally and emotionally what I felt.  My conscious mind initially balked but I was soon thrashing, smashing and socking my ex-husband’s face.  Peter asked me what he wanted to tell me.  I was surprised when he said that he was sorry and felt a mournful sort of closure for the two young twenty-three year old’s that we’d been.  I continued this exercise with my parents, sisters, and a boss or two.  At the end of each session with my chosen loved one, Peter asked me to repeat, I release you and set you free.  I release you and free myself.  I felt drained but also lighter.

I thought that he could cosmically reprogram me – through a hypnotic speed-reading kind of plan.  I realized that I alone had to embrace different choices.  I met a handsome blonde at the Brooklyn Shore Road pier after a recent session.  He told me that he was fighting a lawsuit for a work related injury and hadn’t worked in two years.  I looked into his clear blue eyes, admired his 6”1’ build and said that it had been nice chatting and sped towards my Toyota Corolla.

My idea of love has been tempered over the years.  I no longer refer to the flickering monochromatic images of movies from the 30’s and 40’s. Smoky voices, penetrating stares and forbidden kisses were, I thought, okay for the movies.  But I decided that I was ready for my life.  Two faltering octogenarians reminded me of what I had been missing



Beading my destiny – one colorful strand at a time

Reinventing myself, I find, is not as complicated as it seems.  It’s worse.  I’m at a skull and crossbones crossroad in my life, deciding whether I should follow the path of the skull or the other sign indicating poison.  Not pleased with either choice, I will allow myself to play.  I may be fiddling while my world is self-immolating, but at least I can listen to some wonderful music as I take the fall or jump to new heights.  Think of Pink’s superfab F’n Perfect.  Go to this link, dance and love yourself, because you are, I am perfect. http://tinyurl.com/cfu27pb

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So with more time on my hands than is emotionally healthy, I am avoiding rummaging through the trunks filled with memories, the shadows of regret, and clearing a space for self-expression.  I’ve been an opera singer, but stopped singing in an amazing display of self-sabotage, after my divorce.  I’ve written a paranormal romance series which I hope my brilliant agents will sell.  Recently, I added jewelry design to my toy chest.  I am passionate about personal adornment.  My accessories, the colors, shapes, textures, that I place against my skin please me far more than the men that I’ve been meeting, and the jewelry elements have more character and interest as well.

So while I am exploring supplemental employment opportunities, and thinking about opening myself to an integral relationship that has yes, integrity, passion, a kinetic intellectual attraction, spiritual resonance and the ability to communicate honestly and openly (anyone see the unicorn running down fifth avenue with the golden horn?); I am also trolling through jewelry supply stores.  I am choosing beads that please me.  I imagine the story that each bead conveys.  I feel their texture, individual energy and shape.  I mentally place them in a pattern that tells a story that I want to tell.  I am in love with violet hues, red-violet, blue violet.  I want to create designs that have an impact.  I am often complimented on my accessories and feel that they express my inner warrior priestess.  I am attracted to pieces that have an impact.  They make a statement, as do I.  My personal statement has not attracted the situations or men that interest me, so I will create another world.  I can create a destiny with each piece.  Each element, color, texture, will co-exist with another until a personal parable is realized and executed through jewelry.

Validation is perhaps the most basic, primordial drive.  We receive this through community, family, relationships, work associations.  I’ve annexed myself from the family portion of the primal program.  I work from home as an independent contractor. And community is fleeting in New York, a city so vast, and with such a rapacious appetite that one feels as though they are eternally running with the bulls

A brief foray into online dating has elucidated another passion – boxing.  Yep, my experiences have been as disheartening and disgusting as swimming in a polluted pond.  But, I am admittedly picky.  Of the hundreds of men that I’ve dated, I only hold one or two in my heart and memory.  My ex-boyfriend repeatedly chastises me for being so picky.  I don’t think that I am overly selective, just discriminating.  I know what pleases me and thankfully, no longer have to apologize for my preferences.

I will construct my beaded bracelets like strands of destiny whose colors and stories will delight.  In this, at least, I have control.  To view my new store: http://www.etsy.com/shop/beadeddestiny/

Inner Bitch Alert

Royalty-free Image: Sexy woman in blue

This year I’ve been broken open – by life – by circumstances – by the economy.  I went through the phase where my heart was an open pulsing wound that felt and empathized with everyone’s painful process.  Shelter animals positively reduced me to rubble.  A stumbling osteo-arthritic elderly person evoked loud sobs.  I’ve missed my mother, who died recently.  Still.  Always.

I’m the woman who paid the  fares for drunken persons who staggered onto the bus exuding alcoholic fumes and confusion. I’m the woman who always held the doors for strangers and who stopped to speak to the elderly in my apartment building. Who gives money all the time to the man outside the bodega dressed better than I?  That’s right, you’re getting the hang of it.  I’m the friend who helped friends find work and paid the check when my friends faltered.  I’m not mean spirited a la Real Housewives of New York Aviva and Ramona feud.

Of course, I’m an anonymous blogger and you have your opinions. I can only blog my truth.  There are exceptions, for instance,  I wasn’t all fuzzy toward my ex-husband when he deserted me and stole my money. I did not however, call the police after he’d thrown me around the apartment one evening like a dog toy.  I didn’t hire a forensic accountant to find out how eleven years of  his income had mysteriously disappeared accompanied by the $150,000 bonus that he received prior to our separation. Stupid, I guess, but not mean spirited.  I sued the employer who fired me upon being owed $25,000 in commissions.  I’m empathetic, not a complete chew toy.  But the universe has had other ideas.  And she has helped to unleash a honking, smack talking, impatient, better-not-give-me-that-look bitch, bitch. My inner bitch is clawing furiously with manicured nails, and she is demanding attention now.  I’ve never been a mean girl but watch out!

My tender tendencies somehow morphed into a general impatience and yes, rage.  Now I honk and flash drivers who are too slow to react or if they have the temerity to rubber neck – a disgusting habit.  I resist the urge to run down the jay walking, texting pedestrian oblivious to my green light.  I’ve no patience for the online date who calls 7 times a day when I’ve told him that I’m interested in friendship only.  Then I berate myself.  Why am I angered when someone is offering friendship and solicitation?  Is that such a terrible thing?  Maybe it’s because I know that there is a distinctive ulterior motive.  I’ve listened politely as he expanded on how our relationship will blossom.  Nice words.  Wrong guy.  I think of the online misfits who said they’d call, then disappeared.  The man who emailed me three times after our first date to tell me what a wonderful date we’d had and how we would do it again soon.  Now I was attracted to him.  Did he call, email, text, or send a carrier pigeon with missile in beak to my apartment, five blocks away?  No.

I called an old friend who I bailed out, took out, celebrated and generally propped up more times than the USA has supported puppet regimes.  I told her I was down.  I listened to a 45 minute tirade on how she’s all about “manifesting”, and how she just manifested a neck lift. Clearly, my “manifester”  was off and I was, in her opinion, subsequently failing at life.  I listened to her ranting, after all, she knew how to get her neck lifted.  Forget that she has a younger, high earning new husband paying the bills.  Anyone can sock away $8000 when they’re living rent-free.  Was she really telling me that I should learn from her about life manifestation when I needed support and friendship?  Tell me that you’ve cured MS or was blind and can now see.  Don’t be talking elective surgery smack to me when my heart is on the thrashing floor – blood run out.

So I bite my tongue when I hold the elevator door for you, your toddler and cute old dog.  I know that you’re juggling a lot. But so am I.  I’m still overly impatient on cues and don’t abide the 8 foot tall person who sits in front of me in an empty movie theatre. I have to physically restrain myself from catapulting my body at them in a full frontal attack.  Please don’t talk on your cell during the movie.  Don’t cut in front of me on the street then crawl as you start a protracted conversation with your gynecologist, BFF, or other.  Don’t complain about your mom, you’ve still got one.  I beg of you not to walk in front of my car when the light is green. Avoid from clearing my plate while  I still have a piece of linguine stuck in my tooth and when I’ve been waiting for a water refill for the entire meal. Don’t tell me that movie prices have risen, once again.   Don’t complain about your job, your raise, or about how the economy forced you to forego one of your six vacations this year.  Don’t steal my mail, unless it’s a bill.  And please don’t talk about how one million dollars won’t cut it for your retirement fund. My retirement plan is a quick heart attack.

So shoot me.  My bitch has finally been outed.  Some may say that it’s about time.

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.