“Who else do you know who has this — a man who’d eat your p***y all morning, make you eggs, wash your dishes, and vacuum your house?”
— The Drummer, 77-years-old
He’s right.
Not many.
And who else do you know who would stick with you for the last four months while you — with the help of too many doctors — try to figure out what kind of fucking infection you have that won’t go away. One that’s followed you relentlessly through the “merry” season.
Not many.
I’ve read the stats. When a woman partner gets sick, men often split. Sadly. Usually.
Not mine.
I’m not bragging. Trust me. I’m shocked.
It’s been a time of male bashing — and I’ve been into it. Especially dumping on the old guard. But — surprise — they’re not all alike.
If he was on the fence before all this, he’s very much not now.
So yes, I’ve been thinking — a lot — about the advantages and disadvantages of loving a partner who’s older. In my case: The Drummer.
I had been firmly aligned with the one and only Cindy Gallop on this one: younger. One good night. Maybe three. No sleepovers. Hot and fun.
I had girlfriends for the soul talks, thankyouverymuch.
The most significant partner before The Drummer was fifteen years my junior. That was my pattern. My preference. My demand.
But five years ago, I took the dive into … ta-dah … men my age.
And double ta-dah — friendships first.
Pros and Cons.
PROS:
* Gets my jokes and references — oh god, how I missed this.
* A widower — knows how to love. A cliché. But true.
* Arty. And yes, I’m using the term — a friggin’ bohemian — which I enjoy — with the exceptions of the khakis, the vests, the scary socks.
* Doesn’t want to marry again — yes.
* Has his own place and doesn’t want to cohabitate — double yes.
* Open to explorations in the sack.
* All still working. Whew.
* A friend. First.
CONS:
* Closer to the exit.
* Closer to the inevitable changes of deep aging — if I have to repeat myself one more time!
* Closer to the fear of sex declining — hey, does that have to be?
I think of Mick Jagger and his forty-fourth baby and cheer up.
There are real comforts to loving someone older. Maybe we dimple together into our 80s. Maybe even our 90s. I’ll skip the 100s.
Maybe I stop freaking out over every new rash on his body.
Maybe instead we pick at each other’s bumps like Coppery Titi monkeys — the ones who bond for “life” — whatever that may be.
Honestly?
That sounds kind of appealing.
I still love Cindi Gallop’s point of view. I do.
But mine has shifted.
I no longer want to keep writing the same story, with the same ending, over and over again.
I want to feel well again.
With the person who helped me get there.
Right now, I don’t give a shit about his age.
I care that he showed up.
That he stayed.
That he didn’t flinch.
Turns out, the thing I thought I’d never want
is exactly what I needed.
Happy holidays!
Right now — I’ll take the eggs, the vacuuming —
and the man who didn’t bail — scary sock ‘n all.