Past Love

When editors Kate Harper and Leon Marasco of Spruce Mountain Press informed me that I’d won an honorable mention in this year’s Past Loves Day competition, they did so through one of the loveliest and most personal letters I’ve ever received. I was moved all over again. If you are so inclined, hop on over and take a look at the 2013 winners.

And take a minute to think about the loves you may have left behind.

This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: that even when we’re most sure that love can’t conquer all, it seems to anyway. It goes down into the rat hole with us, in the guise of our friends, and there it swells and comforts. It gives us second winds, third winds, hundredth winds. ~Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #21

The Old Boyfriend
The name was so familiar, it didn’t seem at all out of place in my inbox. Yet when I thought about it, I realized I haven’t seen that name in—could it be?—thirty years?! And when you figure how long I’ve known him, we go back even further than that.

He lived on the other side of my neighborhood, so we were practically children together. A friend of Joe’s, I think. What was I—15, 16 when we first met? I know I thought he was cute. But he had a girlfriend. Later, after they’d broken up, we dated off and on for years.

And now here he was emailing me. Did I remember him? Ha. To me, he looks exactly the same, right down to that scar I loved because it somehow added a slightly rugged defiance to those almost-too-pretty features. And how I loved his conspiratorial grin, the way he leaned in as if we alone got the joke….

What I remember most for some reason is the time he picked me up for a date and I asked him what he’d done all day. He told me he’d been mowing lawns after work. I guess I asked him if it was a job. His mother was widowed and I knew he mowed his own family’s grass. He answered that he always mowed his neighbors’, too. Wasn’t that a job, I asked? I still remember the way he said it. “No,” he shrugged. “They’re old.” As if that explained it. And it did. I believe I fell in love with him just a little bit at that moment.

After we emailed a few times, I sent him my number so we could catch up. He is recently divorced. Although neither of us is from this city, we both live surprisingly close now. And I could no longer use the excuse that I’m not ready to date someone new. Technically this isn’t someone new, is it?

It was really nice when I started to explain a situation with someone we both used to know…and I didn’t have to explain. Not only does he already know the people involved, but he went through something similar himself. He understood my feelings exactly, and from more than one perspective. It’s a situation not many people understand. He’s experienced his own losses, and they’ve given him depth and character. Wisdom.

Once again, it’s the scars I’m drawn to. What an unexpected comfort it is, this intimacy, like something we alone get. I believe I fell in love with him just a little bit. All over again.

My friends are my estate. ~Emily Dickinson

Improper Poll: The Date with Superfluous Boobs

During my college years, I went out (once) with this guy. In my defense, I later found out a good friend of mine had also gone out with him and had an almost identical experience. In order to carefully protect this friend’s identity, we’ll call her Diborah, (Dib for short). In both our cases, when we’d first met him, he was cute. Slim, twenties. Had on a loose shirt that buttoned down the front.

Then, for the date, he showed up in a knit shirt. The tight one. The one that showed off the fact that he had positively enormous breasts.

“Huge ones!  Huge!"  was Dib’s comment.

Dib, as it turns out, did not even get the full treatment that I did. On my date, the guy also brought a couple of his friends along—the brofriends. The brofriends were presumably there in order to conduct a Cheech-and-Chong-like discussion…of me. In front of me. As if I weren’t there. They said things like, “Dude! This one’s okay, but what about that last one? That Shauna? Dude! She was hot.  But this one’s okay….”

This from a man with breasts that were bigger than mine. And the two men who were on his date with him.

Do you have any memorable first date stories?

Cam: Notice that I have not eaten any of the chocolates.

Mitchell: There were two levels. You know it and I know it.

~Modern Family

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #19

The Gargoyle
I had just walked into a single’s dance. At a church, no less. I bet I hadn’t been sitting for two minutes when he swooped in, lurking beside me. “You’re new,” he accused, hunkering down into the chair next to me, uninvited. He was petite and creepily serious. And he fired off a lot of questions, but not the polite kind. Where had I come from? Why was I there at a single’s dance?

He started babbling, and for some reason he blurted out that he used to have dogs, but he didn’t have room for them anymore, so he had to have them all put to sleep. Four of them. He was really upset about it of course! I stared in open-mouthed horror, too many responses warring in my head, and all of them so angry that I finally just turned my back on him. It didn’t keep him from talking, though.

He would dance with me, he said, but he couldn’t. He had filed a worker’s compensation lawsuit for an injury. If he danced, they might take pictures to use against him in court. They send out spies like that.

I’d better watch it, he told me. There were people there who’d take advantage of me. He just wanted to warn me! Some men—not him, of course, because he was just looking out for me—some of those men might pounce right on me. I looked around. My friends were all dancing when I’d come in. He was the only one who even seemed to have noticed my presence. He had a peculiar intensity about him. Why, they might just look at me as another notch on the old belt!

So, why was I there, he demanded again. I tried to look as innocent as a person over 40 can look. Oh, just looking for another notch on the old belt, I shrugged. You know. But not him, of course! I would NEVER take advantage of him, so no worries there! And his injury and all. He was perfectly safe from me for sure!

Then I got up and went to the bathroom because, besides wanting to get away from him, I had to giggle. The look on his face before he retreated into the corners of the room was enough to send me back into the bathroom several times to get the laughter out of my system. Fortunately our table filled up and there was nowhere for him to perch from then on. But I could see him hovering most of the night in the shadows….

Next week: Mr. Name Dropper

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #18

Cute Guy
“Guess who likes you?” my friend asked me. “Who?” I asked. I wrinkled my nose out of habit.

For Valentine’s Day, I got a card from a friend. Two little girls were on the front. “Johnny likes you,” says one.

“Paste-Eating Johnny, or Booger-Eating Johnny?” asks the other. I wish I could find what I did with it, because I can’t remember the punch line. Something about enjoying my options, I think. But the point is, that’s how I feel. Amazingly, it was neither Paste-Eating Johnny nor Booger-Eating Johnny. It was…could it be??!!!

Cute Guy.

I squealed. “Really!?! Are you sure?! Did he tell you, or do you just think so? Does he like me, or does he LIKE me like me??!!” I made her repeat every single word that passed between them on the subject. Twice. Then of course I made her add in any facial nuances he may have used to convey the message. Then I giggled and danced around a bit.

Cute Guy is more than cute. He is smooth. He has chunky-but-clean man hands and a warm handshake and a winning smile. He smells good. Not good as in too-much-aftershave-good, but good as in his personal scent is good. Not that sharp, I-can’t-walk-up-a-hill-so-I’m-turning-red-and-emitting-sour-sweat personal scent. But a clean skin smell. That one. Oooh….

Then she mentioned his age. Oh. Oh crap. He is quite a bit younger than I’d hoped. I told my friend my age. Maybe it’s that she’s only seen me in darkened rooms, or maybe the fat distracted her from the wrinkles or something, but she thought I was younger. Oh, she says. Oh. She knows it, too—it’s too much of an age difference. And truthfully, I don’t blame him a bit. I wouldn’t date someone that much older than I am. I don't think I want to date someone that much younger than I am, either.  Some people can do it. I can’t. I want someone my own age.

Still. I’m unaccountably happy. Like the birthday card, I do have some pretty fun options. And age? I’m still giggling like a twelve-year-old.

Cute Guy liked me!



Welcome and thank you to new blog follower Dorothy Evans!

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #17

Mellow Dude
I met Mellow Dude at a Valentine party called the Red and Black Party. If you felt optimistic about love, you were supposed to wear red. If not…well, you get it. My sweater was red and black. Mellow Dude drifted along the shore of the sea of red and black sweaters wearing…a blue, beach-style, summer shirt. “Gets hot dancing,” he later told me.

The party was held at a wild casino bar. The music was hard rock and loud. People either went home early or wandered off to gamble. I looked around, and the only person left was Mellow Dude. He didn’t ask me to dance so much as he cocked his head at the dance floor and shrugged. I shrugged back. What the hey.

Hours and hours later, we closed down the place with a reluctant, sweat-soaked farewell to the band. My feet would ache for days, but it was worth it. During the breaks, Mellow had told me a little about himself. Doesn’t drink much. Never danced in his life until he discovered recently that it’s a nice form of exercise. Likes dogs. Is close to his children. Likes reading books on spirituality. He shrugged again. It fascinates him. Go figure. He didn’t talk too much. Asked a few questions—but not so many that it was prying—and listened to the answers.

Hard to pinpoint, this Mellow Dude. Not a hippie. Not an aging surfer. Not really rural. Not urban. But he didn’t seem controlling, needy, dramatic, insecure, patronizing, or immature. On the dance floor, he wasn’t a swooper, a flailer, a showoff-er, a pretend dance instructor, a St. Vitus Dancer, a bowl-people-over-er, a spin-you-like-a-topper, or a cop-a-feeler. Just smiled dreamily and danced. Not a bad thing, this mellowness. In fact, it was a little like relaxing on a beach after you’ve been through a hurricane.

The next day, I got a better look at the sweater I’d been wearing. And I discovered in the light of day that it wasn’t red and black, after all. It was really red and navy.

Love Song: the Next Stanza

I was so deeply touched by what you all said about the Love of My Life!! Some of you thought I should go try to get back in touch with him. He’s married, and obviously to someone with a heck of a lot more sense than I have.

If he ever finds himself single, he’ll contact me. Or, in the words of Princess Buttercup, “My Wesley will come for me.” But I won’t hold my breath waiting for that to happen. And frankly, I’m still plenty happy if it doesn’t.

The day after Valentine’s Day I picked up the book I’m reading, Eat Pray Love. Today’s quote is what I really, truly did read. I just can’t add a thing, except that I was so uplifted by all of your good, warm wishes for my true love and happiness. May your kindness come back to you a hundredfold.

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with your soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. ~Richard from Texas, as quoted by Elizabeth Gilbert in Eat Pray Love

The Love Song

If the soul truly has a mate, he was mine. It was clear from the beginning that he was Yogi to my uncertain consciousness, guide to a restless spirit. He surfaced and resurfaced several times through the years, but always I was about to embark on a new phase. Bad timing, I told myself. Bad, bad timing.

He even wrote me a song, sung in his deep and honeyed voice, a going-away gift. I treasured that song and put it away for safekeeping, but at some point over the years I forgot where it was.

One of the things that summed him up best was his response when a beautiful, renowned boyfriend-stealer threw herself at him right in front of me. That was the first time I took a step back and realized with a small shock that he was physically lovely as well. Virtually every other guy I know would have flirted back at the very least, but he was cool to her and a little disgusted. When she finally backed off and left, I fished. Didn’t he think she was pretty?

He was careful. He hesitated, felt for the right words. He finally said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think she’s pretty on the inside.”

Goodness, how I loved him then, and forever, in a way that didn’t end when I married someone else. I will forever think of him not just as someone I loved, but as one of the people I admire most in the world. And now I admire him even more because I’ve lived enough to realize how rare he really was.

Some people continue to uplift and inspire us, as I said in another post, and some comfort us. He did both. Does both. When I look back, I realize it wasn’t that the timing was wrong. I wasn’t ready. And I can’t regret. Knowing that people like him exist in the world is enough. Having known him at all is enough.

The other day I was looking for some paperwork for a project, and there was the song, just in time for Valentines Day. This time the timing was perfect; it sings to me again after all these years. But then again, love that comes from the soul is timeless.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love. ~Sophocles

A Story of Young Love

He was my first husband.

We married on the church steps. My friend Chris was the minister. He kissed me—on the lips—and everyone giggled, including me. He gave me a ring that turned my finger green. I gave him a lock of my hair.

He was the new kid in a school that rarely got new kids. He was tall and handsome and exotic.

One day his mother came to school. She was statuesque and graceful, like a dancer. She picked him up and he left. I never saw him again.

I grieved. Anger is a part of grief, so I angrily buried the ring in my backyard. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Later, when I had moved on to the acceptance stage, I tried to dig it up again. I couldn’t find it. So I grieved over that, too. Honestly, I sort of still do.

And now, as an adult and a mother, I have to wonder what made his mother leave so quickly. And I grieve now for her...maybe most of all.

Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle in their journey.

Thank God and them for the opportunity to walk this leg of their journey with them.~Anonymous

It Keeps on Giving

In honor of Valentine’s Day month, I was going to write about some of the greatest loves of my life. But a blog post inspired by my long-ago friend Marcus turned into a writing frenzy that’s lasted for days…and what I ended up with is not a blog post, but something that feels necessary and complete and much too dear to my heart to send into the world just now. Not sure what I’ll do with it yet, but right now I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed being snowed in for the past few days! Okay, except for the shoveling and pushing my daughter’s car out of a snow bank (thanks to the help of a kind stranger), that is....

Why is it that with some people we’re left feeling bleak and drained, and with others, even their memory is forever uplifting and inspiring? And what is it that inspires you?

May you find yourself surrounded by warmth—warm people, warm surroundings, warm memories, warm hearts.

Friendship is a sheltering tree. ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #16

The Cowboy
We’d met once about a year earlier, so we hugged warmly. Old friends in singles group world. We were eating at a restaurant where the fare was a bit tricky. My buddy—a somewhat solicitous man—asked me if I’d like some help with it. I asked him about something he was eating. Here, he said, try some. I couldn’t eat my potatoes; did he want them? We exchanged. Later, a friend asked me something about my date. Date? I assured her that I barely knew the guy. But it made me realize how easily I’d fallen into that old-married-couple interaction with this man. Odd how emotionally attracted I am to that calm, masculine energy, that ruggedness, yang to my yin. A cowboy quality.

I was reared in Nebraska. Reared in the city, but still, a part of me knew this man, knew that he knew horses and dust and how to cup a cigarette in callused fingers, flicking the ash like a small gunshot. I knew he could mend a fence and casually lean on it as he pulled the hat down to shade his squinting eyes. I could feel without touching the dryness of his hands and the stubble on his chin.

And he sensed, in turn, that I have learned to sniff the air around people, easy to spook. He knew to move smoothly, self-assuredly, not too suddenly, so I don’t bolt. He quickly had me—a separate species, really—eating out of his hand.

But helpful very quickly seemed to turn…patronizing. Is there a time in life when condescension is ever truly appropriate? I can’t think of one. Even my father was never patronizing, bless him, as the truly great never are. Those little digs cut like spurs.

Snort. Gallop.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: a Final Word...Um, Okay, Maybe a Whole Lot of Them

Lest you think I’ve been mean talking about the odd men I’ve met, be assured that I have left out a lot. For example, I have it on good authority that one of the ones I poked fun of a bit has had two restraining orders placed against him by old girlfriends. Scary. But I leave out a lot of other stuff as well…like the good ones. Fortunately they are everywhere, but they are simply not that funny. And even if a guy is great, it doesn’t automatically mean I’m attracted to him. Or him to me, certainly. And sad to say, there very well could be some man writing about me somewhere. I’m sure I would fall under several undesirable lists.

I did briefly think about writing about some of the single women I’ve observed. And although there are definitely the clingy types and the man-haters and the sort of scary ones, the bottom line is that it forced me to think about which categories I would fit into. And that is just not fun at all.

One happy discovery I’ve made is that, contrary to what those infamous dating ads suggest, all men of a certain age do not necessarily want younger women. In fact, I’ve met a surprising number of men who don’t seem to mind older women at all and one who actually prefers his women on the mature side. Really.

I also met a man who was funny and witty and handsome and oh my the air around him felt right and he just smelled good. But our meeting was far too brief. Since then I haven’t run into him again. Sure hope I do in the future.

Here are a few others I’ve left out. When I complained about my deck falling in (it was structurally unsound in the first place, and now it’s literally crashing in), one very nice man offered to come over and fix it. Several times. I haven’t felt right taking him up on the offer, but people like him make me feel happy about humanity.

When another one heard that a woman’s ex husband broke in and hit her, he was there to help her and drive her to the hospital. He bought groceries for a woman who couldn’t afford them (because it is absolutely shocking how impoverished Missouri law leaves some women in divorce cases). He then got her in touch with the correct social service agencies to help her get future meals and medical care. Whenever a woman shows up in his single’s group looking devastated, he goes out of his way to make her feel at home. Oh, I suppose some might call him a rescuer, but he is always a gentleman of the finest order and truly a good human being whom I admire a great deal. Here is a real-life Superman in a world that desperately needs heroes.

I started to write about another I called Down in the Dumped Dude, who said he’d had two spouses run off with other men (presumably not the same one). What made me ache was that I witnessed him telling all of this to a woman who may well have run off from a few spouses herself. I started to wax on about how affairs are no more about sex than brownies are about hunger for a lot of people; they are often about self esteem. In many cases, it’s not so much the sex that the dedicated non-monogamous lust after, but the sexy—that is, the need to feel sexually validated by as many people as possible. And I still think that’s true for many serial cheaters, just as it’s absolutely necessary to be an accomplished liar in order to cheat successfully. But I also know that adultery is a roiling stew with far too many complex ingredients for me to tackle with just a taste. So…forget that one. Besides, I’m happy to report that “Down” seems to have found someone who is perfect for him, and he seems neither down…nor likely to be dumped.

I wanted to write about bad hair. Bad hair is funny. But fortunately toupees no longer look like a piece of greasy black road kill that decided to expire on the side of a bald guy’s head. And although I did see a dye job that was apparently done on Pandora and glowed with a radioactive half-life (it was an odd yet vibrant color), the worst hair I can think of is Donald Trump’s. For pete’s sake, can’t the man buy new hair? But I also get quite a shock when I get a look at my own. Oops. No more hair jokes, people! That’s just mean!

And I couldn’t bring myself to write about a man I met who has an obvious mental illness. I’ve been close to someone with a mental illness—I find that an awful lot of women who write have—and that kind of illness is no more funny than diabetes. Okay, maybe this particular guy’s was just a little. BUT I’d take an obvious imbalance of brain chemicals any day over their truly dangerous counterpart who’s not nearly so easy to spot: the sociopath.

But I’ll save that one for another day. Suffice it to say that every single man I’ve mentioned here is worth far, far more than one of those—with the possible exception of those I suspect could very well be sociopaths themselves.

Fortunately for me, I am genuinely blessed with wonderful children and friends. Although society seems to dictate that we are somehow incomplete without a spouse, I simply don’t agree. Whether I meet someone and fall in love again or not doesn’t bother me too much, honestly. I am having far more fun than I had twenty-five years ago. Again, really. Why? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go back, but go back knowing everything you know now?

Yup. It might be in a much older, fatter, and wrinklier package, but…I’m back.

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy.  What a caterpillar calls the end of the world the master calls a butterfly. ~Richard Bach, Illusions.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: #15

Attila the Hunk
He’s a huge, Viking of a man who is only missing the hat with the horns. He laughs with gusto; it is a laugh I would imagine booming from Poseidon’s mouth while stirring up a tsunami. What’s wrong with this guy? Other than the fact that I suspect his home is decorated with animal carcasses?*  I have no idea. I scared him off before I had a chance to find out.

I had just met him at a single’s event at an outdoor concert. We were having a nice talk in the line to buy water. And then…. Okay, in my defense, it really sounded like Attila said, “I’ll get yours, too.” I said, “Oh…uh…thank you.” When he looked briefly confused, I realized with horror that he may have said, “I think I’ll get two.” Did I just trick a total stranger into buying my water? Oh my gosh oh my gosh! How embarrassing! Was there a way to fix this?!

So I plunged ahead with my standby, good ol’ honesty. “Wait,” I blubbered. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear well over the music. What did you just say?” This did not improve the situation any. In fact, it was a little like saying a stupid thing, and then holding up a giant flashing neon sign that says, “I JUST SAID A STUPID THING!” Now Attila was embarrassed, too, and I could sense he was trying to figure out a way to extract himself from this weird woman who was making such an issue of a bottle of water.

Attila ordered THREE waters and sort of tossed one to me. “Here,” he mumbled to the ground. “Thanks,” I mumbled back, also to the ground.

Poor Attila. He could conquer the tsunami, but he sure ran from that strange woman begging for water in line at the festival!

*I know this sounds like a stereotype. It isn’t. I later overheard him talk about deer hunting. The gist of the conversation was: Antlers are desirable.

Next Week: (Probably) The Ones I Left Out

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #14

Moob Man
He’s slim. He’s athletic looking. Yet his ex-pecs have drooped into moobs. These B-cups could get him hired at Hooters if only they were a tad less pendulous. And why is it that men with moobs wear clingy knit tops? In this case it’s unfortunate that he’s tall, because any short woman who slow danced with him would end up with a face full of man-mammaries. He also appeared to have had a face lift. Forgive me for saying it: wrong choice of cosmetic surgeries, Mr. Man-mams!

Next week: Summary One More

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #13

I’m-Not-Drunk Dude
The good news is that he is not a mean drunk. In fact, he’s a great guy, everyone’s friend—who can down half his weight in alcohol and not seem terribly drunk at all. He is proud of this accomplishment, and no wonder—he’s worked for years to build such tolerance. He thinks he’s no fun unless he’s drinking, so he finds an excuse to imbibe no matter where he is. He has the uncanny ability to sniff out a bar anywhere—even along a wilderness hiking trail. At an afternoon festival, he makes a beeline for the only booth he cares about—the beer garden. Whether it’s after a morning at the gym, at an afternoon charity event, or at the church picnic, every outing somehow involves alcohol. He frequently swears it off—say, for Lent—because if he can give it up for a few weeks, he’s sure that means it’s not a problem. Then he decides that God wouldn’t have put St. Patrick’s Day in the middle of Lent if people weren’t supposed to drink, and besides, he made his point. And since God said, it would practically be sacrilege NOT to! So drink up—he’s buying!

Next week: Episode #14 (? Send men! I need fresh ones!)

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #12

Mr. Pick Up
I met Mr. Pick Up on a hot summer night. The excitement at the outdoor concert was almost electrical, the band, electrifying. He was tall, muscular, handsome. Considerably younger than I am. Was it that it was so dark out or that he just didn’t care? He slid an arm around my waist and I let him. Newly divorced, he said. Yes, it was obvious what he was after, but let’s face it, after forty-five a bad reputation is quirky at worst, almost admirable at best. Heck, cougars are practically a good thing! But…the bottom line is another one of those sad ironies of life. Respect matters at my age. And the question isn’t whether they respect me, but whether I respect them. Mr. Pick Up tucked his card into my hand. “Call,” he whispered. Months later, I still have the card. But I know I keep it only so I can say: What’s wrong with me?! I could have had a hot guy!

Next week: Episode #13, The I’m-Not-Drunk-Dude

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #11

Karma Chameleon
Karma Chameleon was slick, I’ll give him that. He was funny, witty, and interesting. There was something unbelievably familiar about him. He had an easy laugh. He had served in a public office, same party as my very political parents. Even though it’s not my party, I was astounded at how drawn I was toward this man. I later looked him up; he was telling the truth about his political background. But what I liked most was his incredibly diverse interests. Psych and journalism major. Right now he’s a counselor. My ears perked up. Writer? Counselor? At that point on, it was clear that his passions are writing and counseling. And—could it get more amazing?—when I mentioned I teach, it turns out he’s crazy about children, too. Still…it bothered me that he was trying so hard to impress me. And he later let something slip that led me to believe he still wasn’t over his divorce. Unhealed means not ready for a new relationship, and a counselor should have known that. But worse was the feeling I couldn’t shake that all of those interests and occupations were merely lines he was casting to see where the nibbles were. Something didn’t feel quite right. I decided to give him time and see what he did. The next time we met, I watched him hit on every woman in the room, one by one. When I passed him one time, I couldn’t help but overhear that he was a business owner. With another, he was in sales. Sales? Diversity is wonderful, but this felt way too much like a con. Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon, you come and go. But…just go, ‘kay? 

Next week: Episode #12, Mr. Pick Up

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #10

Bucket List Boy
This is the opposite of The Health Nut. He isn’t just embracing his mortality; he is hurtling himself toward it at the speed of a high-pitched scream. He has a list and he’s not afraid to plunge headlong into it…usually hanging on by something that looks a little like a large elastic ponytail holder. His midlife crisis is so out of control that the list usually involves too little oxygen and way too much gravity. He’s like an adolescent with plenty of money and no mom to yell at him.

Bucket List Boy asked me to jump out of an airplane with him. Amazingly, there was a time in my life when I actually wanted to do this. Now I have a child still at home whom I don’t want to leave homeless. But even if all that depended on me was my plumerias, I still couldn’t do it. As I age, I find that scary thrills like that lose their thrilling aspects—leaving behind just the scary part. I chickened out of the Mr. Freeze roller coaster at Six Flags and had to walk the long Loser Walk past the crowds of bubble gum-chewing tweens watching me with a combination of pity and adolescent superiority. It was the fact that they had you remove your earrings that got me. Anything that sucks the jewelry out of your body is just too much suckage. Serious, scary suckage. Besides, things already hurt at my age; do I really want to risk adding injuries? If I survive? Right now my idea of risky behavior is using a lower SPF sunscreen or skipping a year of mammograms. Worse—and this is a true confession—I am genuinely afraid that sheer terror would make me lose control of my bodily functions. And let’s face it—it’s just not cool at any age to poop on your date.

No question about it, though—Bucket List Boy is fun. He is a wild man who does everything with gusto. He has recreational vehicles galore. He loves to travel. Oh, the places you could go with Bucket List Boy! The question is, would you return?

Next week: Episode #11, Karma Chameleon

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #9

The Health Nut
We all have to face the fact that we are mortal creatures, and yes, more so at my age. But The Health Nut goes to ϋber-extremes. He is not just watching his cholesterol, but watching every particle in the environment which may or may not contribute to his demise, including toxic tooth fillings and evil air particles. True, he is slim and healthy looking, but this guy raises an eyebrow at certain organic products, even. Yet it wasn’t his diet that scared me off. What did it was the line about certain products “alleviating the symptoms of menopause.” Did I say anything about menopause? NO. Why? Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why. I don’t care how old I am, how natural it is or whether I am standing in a puddle created by my own hot-flash-induced sweat, if you’re male and not currently wearing a white coat and holding a speculum (I’m just immature enough that I can’t type that without adding: eww), that’s another fact of life you’d better avoid more carefully than your own eventual demise. My first thought was that he was trying to get rid of me (a technique which used to be known in high school as “The Gross-Out”), but it later became clear that he was just being obsessed with health and aging. I’ll take those tips when you’re ready for me to suggest that you need Viagra, testosterone supplements and male enhancement products, ‘kay, Bran Boy?

Next week: Episode #10, Bucket List Boy

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #8

Martian Man
Remember Big Boy restaurants? Martian Man looked like Big Boy, but much more grave. He was grave on account of the Martians. It’s not for me to say whether he really did have a close encounter with a U.F.O. 30 years ago. But using that as his opening line didn’t overwhelm me with the excitement of his life. Even under the assumption that it did happen, if it was 30 years ago and that’s still all he’s talking about, it’s time to take the lawn chairs out to that hillside to stake out the firmament again. Oh, wait, he does that. So maybe time for a new kind of hobby. Or therapist.

Next week: Episode #9, The Health Nut