Picky, picky
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I recently went to dinner with an old friend of the opposite sex who is single and a tad more ancient than myself. This was not a date. We have known each other for over twenty years. It was a chance to catch up after my return to Los Angeles. He was possibly taking a weary glance at the idea of attraction to a woman close to his age, but I surmised that this notion would pretty well die after the first sip of Chardonnay.
I was not incorrect. I have had a handful of male friends—powerful Hollywood types—who have sought out my company every few years. I actually had the temerity to look deeply into the eyes of one such fellow many years ago and say:
“So did your therapist tell you to think about, hazard the idea, actually consider dating someone close to your own age again?”
We both laughed and had a great lunch full of stories and heated opinions and then shook hands goodbye.
ROLL OUT THE RED CARPET.
This does not hurt my feelings. These are Hollywood guys. It has been drilled into them that older women are gross, unattractive, downright terrifying creatures. Witness the portrayal in countless movies of a lascivious older woman trying to seduce some poor, guileless young man. I was sent so many scripts of this nature that I finally just told my agents to stop passing them on to me. The ‘horny old hag’ bit was built into plot after plot, to the point that, despite all evidence to the contrary in the real world, it must seem to viewers to be a universal truth.
It is NOT.
I do not think my sexuality is repulsive, and I have exactly ZERO interest in seducing someone thirty-years my junior. Ewwww! If you are a young fellow, I will happily make you a sandwich, but there is no planet on which I want to make out with you. This is just dumb-bunny stuff, but folks here are steeped in it. It is Hollywood’s world view, and it’s not changing anytime soon. This is why you forever see older—no, I mean OLD older—leading men paired with women twenty to twenty-five years their junior in film after film.
Anyway, this friend and I sat down in a fine restaurant, and he barreled into ordering for both of us with such force that I just went with it. It was a nice restaurant and he knows his food and wine, so I was sure it would be delicious. But it was a touch disquieting to not be asked what I might want.
THE TASTING MENU.
The champagne arrived first, and we had a good toast to what was actually the good news of the day. He leaned forward several times, and I realized I needed to speak louder and more clearly because his hearing is dodgy. I feel you, friend; none of us can hear as well as we used to.
The tasting menu he selected was mostly seafood, which meant I would have to retrieve a toothpick at some point and try to discreetly dislodge the lobster shred which was sure to be caught in one of the many ‘food traps’ in my teeth.
No one tells you about this stuff. You’re just bumping along with no thoughts toward such an occurrence, and then just a few years after you first held the menu at arm’s length in an attempt to actually read it, you have to start ordering carefully, with a nod to your now dismal dental state. Everyone I know goes through this. Dennis will no longer eat chicken. Caroline, like me, can only chew on one side of her mouth. Jeff and Jeremy have mastered the art of looking poised with a small wooden spear gently prodding about their mouths after a meal. My friends and I pass around toothpicks like party favors. They are always on hand.
“How are you feeling about getting older?” I asked my dinner companion. “Are you having fun with it?”
“Well, I guess it’s fun…except the heart-attack part.”
“Ah, yes. Well, that can put a damper on things.”
It was a perfectly lovely meal, and I was appreciative, but it was four hours long. Course after course was delivered, and I was getting antsy. I could tell he was irritated that I was not more deeply impressed. He is an impressive person, but then, you know … um here’s the thing … I like to think that I am too.
The conversation flowed from topic to topic: the exes we both have a few (he broke up with one woman over 60 times) I’m just gonna leave that there. We talked about the “Industry” (we both are still working, or at least we were before the strike), and our love of all things culinary.
“So, I am a good cook, but you are a great cook?” he asked, annoyed and a bit taken aback.
“Well, I have only experienced your food once and it was good—really good. But, I have mine all the time and it’s—well, great, so yes,” I replied, suddenly realizing that, without knowing it, I must have labeled us good and great at some point in the conversation.
I am not sure exactly when I resigned, but I got out of the “male ego flattery business” years ago. Sorry pal, but I am too old and too determined to enjoy being this age to give a tinker’s damn about that kind of thing. I’m a great cook, that’s just that.
TABLE FOR ONE.
People often ask about my dating life. Evenings like this one are why it remains moribund. Nice man, brilliant man, but no. I am planning to do my own ordering as a rule. The feeling was mutual, to say the least. I know some folks are truly desperate to find a partner, but I am happy being single. If the perfect person happens by, well, we will see.
My ex-husband called me recently to let me know that he was getting remarried. We are still good friends, and I sincerely wished him all the best with it, then I added:
“Scott, if I ever call you to tell you that I am getting married again, do me a favor: call the police!”
He laughed, and we talked about his family and mine. He was a ten-year chapter in my life, and that matters. Life goes on but love never dies; it just changes shape.
All of us “olds”–we glasses-wearing, toothpick-wielding, knee-wrapping, ear-cupping, limp-our-way-to-the-coffee-pot-in-the-morning folks–got here honestly. We worked 16-hour days, watched our weight, dyed our hair, opted for contacts. We generally gave a lot of time and attention to making sure our outward appearances matched our ambitions. It was a lot of work, and most of us did it with gusto. We aimed to please. But this is a different time in our lives.
YOU BREATHING?
A physician recently told me, “Our bodies are built to break down,” in answer to why my foot was—and often still is—killing me, despite me following his every advice. Worms to that!
Not welcome news, and yet, it somehow always comes as news to us. We just go about thinking things will stay the same until our bodies start to insist otherwise. So, in light of this, I say let’s have a little fun with falling apart. Let’s give our egos a rest, stop competing and qualifying, and just breathe.
Which is not to say that it will all be easy.
“Hey! I am just checking in. You breathing?” my pal Bryan wrote every day, just to see if I was okay, as did so many of my friends and family members.
Thank you, thank you to all the folks who kept tabs on me, who called and called, and helped me through the recent loss of my beloved dog, Roxy. My sisters took turns picking me up and taking my still weeping person with them out into the world. I cried my way through Pilates class, Lowe’s, and Trader Joe’s. I was a full-on, crazy crying lady for at least ten days.
Jess and Kalea, the pet sitters whom Roxy adored, brought me a digital-photo gizmo loaded with pictures of her with her dog pals at daycare. A lovely thing. It sits behind the flowers that Dean and Jim brought, which somehow are still alive. The Anthonys both sent flowers, too– so dang sweet.
Many of you readers were so kind, and I am grateful to all of you who read my story and shared yours. I know that life is loss, but it is, still and all, a hard thing to accept.
Grief is a gift. A testament. A blessing. It is love.
On we go …
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I am glad that I checked back in after way-too-long. I somehow let by subscription lapse. This brought up all sorts of things that I have been thinking about recently, especially in light of a recent disastrous date with a woman at-or-about-my-age. She had expectations. I did not. She clearly came from a very different place than me in many ways. She went away very angry and did not accept my apology. I should have been clearer with her.
I have largely dated women older than me. This is not because I have gone in with a plan to do so, it just seems to have been the way that it has worked. When I have pursued someone significantly younger than me, it is largely because I have forgotten that I am at an age when it is possible for someone younger to have an advanced career and plenty of interesting life experience to talk about.
Folks talk about the frame-of-reference issue, which seems to have been exacerbated by the pace of technological change over the last twenty or thirty years. Several years ago, I dated a woman who was over a decade younger than me, and her obsession with her phone and her tendency to communicate by text exclusively was a source of minor frustation. I could have gotten past this, but there were other issues. Mutual lust may be a foundation for an impulsive fling, but not a relationship.
Thank you for fearlessly giving us so much to think about, as usual.
Tom
all wonderfully written... honest and funny ... a wonderful combination... ty so .....
parker