The Advice Column you will never read anywhere else......

"Dear [Advice Columnist]:

I am a senior lady who dates senior men. Here are some of the turnoffs; bad hygiene, dirty nails, sloppy clothes, bad table manners, and expecting sex right away. I've experienced all of these. Ladies get prettied up and smelling good, but end up with men who don't care how they look or smell and think it's OK. It's not"

Signed: [Senior Lady]



Advice columns make me a bit crazy. Well, usually it's the answers that fall so far short, so here's how "Dear Deborah" would respond to this woman's conundrum. (Notice that Senior Lady isn't asking for advice; I think she's got senior men all figured out by now and is probably enjoying an evening out with the girls.)

Dear Senior Lady:

We feel your pain. Telling men to "pay attention to their hygiene" is like telling a child to "be careful on the playground." Men and children share many characteristics, so let's be more specific, shall we? Here's an open letter to men that covers some of your concerns, dear Lady.

Men, go look in the mirror. If you wear glasses, take them off and get real close to your reflection. See those nose hairs, the ones long enough to braid? SNIP them! I hear they even make a handy little razor designed just for that purpose, so get it out of the drawer where you threw it months ago, and use it! EVERY time you go out, especially if you plan on taking a woman out......anywhere! But even your co-workers don't want to look at wayward nose hair. Trust me on this one.

Now move on up to your eyebrows and then over to your ears. Do you see the strands that stick straight out from your forehead or ears, like the needles on a compass pointing the way?  This is why no one looks you in the eye while you're talking; we're so distracted by the forest of hair sticking this way and that, we can't concentrate. You need to tweeze, cut, or otherwise shave until everything is neat and tidy, and where it belongs. We're begging you!

If you have gained or lost weight for any reason, go shopping. Cinching up the waist on your pants with your too-large belt or fastening your 36" belt underneath your now-40 inch waist isn't fooling us. You will find that women aren't as obsessed with body shape as are men, so we really don't care what size your waist is today; we WOULD like you to wear the proper sized clothes to fit that body, though.

Remember the table manners your mother taught you (or maybe it was an aunt or dad or a bossy sister, but somebody probably mentioned it once or twice)? Those rules are still in effect, even if you've never married at all or have been divorced for 20 years (which could prove my point here) or newly widowed and looking for companionship. We don't want to either hear you chew your food (just because you're hard of hearing doesn't mean WE are, but that's a topic for another day) or SEE that food in your mouth at any time. Ever. I'll wait to hear the rest of your opinion on global warming until after you're finished chewing that last morsel of the great casserole I brought you. I promise.....

Now, back to you, Senior Lady. You indicated another problem concerning sex, but there is even more difficulty than you have apparently had occasion to encounter, since you haven't gotten past all the bad hygiene yet.

They may WANT sex right away, but that desire is simply a remnant of long-lost days, the ones when they were sowing wild oats like a wheat field hit by an afternoon wind storm. Desire doesn't translate to much these days. Those little blue pills don't help most of these men, sweetie. Sorry to be the one to deliver this news, but they take so much other medication that, unless you want to have paramedics burst into the room at a very inopportune time, they simply can't participate in the fun anymore. (The men can't participate, not the paramedics although some of those guys are very healthy looking as they jump out of their ambulance, and I bet THEY can.....but, I digress.) And, yes, there are alternatives, but they also tire really easily, so it's back to dreaming about the paramedics, I'm afraid. It's all just a source of frustration for us.

I wish I could be more encouraging, Senior Lady, but it's been said that men and women are from different planets. I would add, in different galaxies.

And there is a reason some women are called "cougars." I'll leave it at that.

"Men will treat you the way you let them. There is no such thing as "deserving" respect; you get what you demand from people.. if you demand respect, he will either respect you or he won't associate with you. It really is that simple.” 

Tucker Max

Balls with edges.....

There doesn’t seem to be a gender or age component to this particular oddity, the one involving the ball that refuses to bounce.  I sat next to a 20-something young woman recently who caught the ball and then let it fall with a hollow “THUNK”  on the table between us, its jagged edges preventing it from returning to me.

Then there was the strange man I sat next to at a party. (I could call him a stranger and be right either way.) He was a great catcher. Superb, in fact. But that ball, the one I kept trying to get into play, caught on the edge of the plastic chairs we were sitting in every time. I finally got tired of bending over to pick it up off the dusty ground, so just left it lying in the dirt. It got real quiet then between the stranger and me. (I guess he didn't bring any balls of his own.)

This happens so often that I play other games with it. (Might as well; I’ve got a silly looking ball in my hand, right?) I’ve sat at a dinner table and tossed the ball to the person sitting across from me, and then watched as the “catcher” has a wonderful time with that ball. I wait, I smile, I wonder, “Will THIS be the person who knows how to throw this darn ball back to me?” Only to watch in disappointment as he puts it down by his water glass. It won’t roll—remember, it’s got edges—so it just sits here. Mute. Silent. Dead.

I do this several times with the dinner guests until I tire of the game. At that point, the only sounds drifting around the table consist of the clink of silverware or dishes being passed. And all the balls sit on their edges, simply because so many people have forgotten how to play.

Or converse.  The art of conversation seems to have gone the way of the dinosaur. This is one issue that can’t be blamed strictly on texting, either (although texting certainly hasn’t helped anyone actually “talk” to others). I have observed and participated in sad scenarios like this one for some time now:

“Hi, this is my first time here! I’m Deborah. What’s your name?” I lob the ball into play.

“[Strange man says his name.]”  THUNK. The ball just found its first edge as it drops.

“How long have YOU been part of this group?” I pick the ball up off the ground and try again; I hit it back across the net.

“Oh, about a year! I started coming after I moved here, and didn’t know anyone.”  I wait, but then Oops!…the ball falls to the ground again, another edge notched into its surface.

“Where did you move here from?” I’m nothing if not persistent, so back across the net goes the ball.

“California. My grandchildren live here, so it’s been nice to be closer to them.”  CLUNK! It sits there again, lonely and quiet.

“How many grandchildren do you have?” I know, I know…why am I still trying to get the ball back, you ask? I agree; this is getting pretty tiring.

All I can say is that I really enjoy meeting and talking to new people. I've found I even enjoy more now than when I was younger. We all have such great stories and experiences—at least at last recollection we did—and these shared experiences can bring us together in some very important ways. Regardless of our age, or ethnicity, or gender, or place of birth we are more similar as humans than we are different. We might even learn something from each other.

But we have to talk to each other to find that out, right? I’m exhausted most of the time from stooping over to pick that silly ball up. So, for those of you who need concrete lessons, let’s start that “conversation” between strange guy and me over again:

“Hi, this is my first time here! I’m Deborah. What’s your name?”

“[Strange man says his name.] Is this your first time here?” 

“Yes, it is! It seems like a nice group. How long have YOU been a member?”

“Oh, about a year! I started coming after I moved here, and didn’t know anyone. Did you meet  a group member somewhere or did you just find us on line?”  

“Actually, I met Susie at a networking meeting last week, and she invited me to come tonight! You mentioned that you moved here; where did you move here from?”

“California. My grandchildren live here, though, so it’s been nice to be closer to them. Do YOU have any family in the area?” 

“Yes, I do. My daughter lives here and my mother lives with me. I don’t have any grand children yet. How many do you have?”

And the ball bounces on, no edges to catch on anything at all! The ball stays in the air more than it drops and it’s a lot more fun to play the game.

Conversation doesn’t have to be a mystery. It simply involves showing a little interest in the person on the other side of the net. Enough to throw the ball back at least once in a while.

I think I found him!

I think I may have finally found the one for me! Let me tell you a little about him:

He basks in my attention.

He sits patiently as I soak in the hot tub, keeping me company, since he isn't comfortable in the warm water.

At night, he snuggles as close as he can get to me, eyes on my face until he drifts off to sleep.

As I write, he often seeks my hand, just a touch to remind me that he is nearby.

If I leave for any length of time, he is waiting for me patiently when I return. No questions asked.

He doesn't offer advice or criticize or whine. He simply accepts me totally, flaws and all.

He doesn't point things out in my house that need fixing (meaning I should fix them, for heaven's sake, what am I waiting for?) or sigh heavily at something I say or do that he doesn't understand. I don't think he knows how to roll his eyes.

He is playful (although he does have to be in the mood, but hey....so do I).

He doesn't expect me to visit his family. In fact, he is remarkably free of what people our age label "baggage."

Would you like to meet my "perfect" man?  Meet him here!

“A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself-and especially to feel, or not feel. Whatever you happen to be feeling at any moment is fine with them. That's what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is.”
― Jim Morrison

Dancing Fool......Encore!

 “Dance, when you're broken open. Dance, if you've torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you're perfectly free.”
Rumi

Easy for Rumi to say. Last Saturday, I was wondering why I had agreed to such a foolish thing.

WHY did I agree--no, VOLUNTEER--to learn a choreographed waltz and perform it in front of friends, family, and strangers? Who did I think I was: Julianne or Katarina or Cheryl on Dancing With the Stars? Those folks spend untold hours every week learning their dances. I was contained to two hour long lessons a week to learn the intricate patterns and steps my instructor put together for us.

Saturday was THE day! I loaded my clothes into the car and went to get my hair done. Everything has to be BIG in performing, so those are the directions I gave the young woman who sat me down in her chair in the salon: BIG hair, please. Well, that's fine if you've got a lot of hair to get BIG with, but I don't. (Remember? It's one of those aging things we have talked about before.)  I had to settle for hair that was.....well, nicer than I could have done myself. Aging teaches us to be realistic, if nothing else.

Nerves get me for about an hour each time I've done this (yes, I have done it before, don't ask me why I didn't learn not to volunteer again), but then excitement takes over. I finally get to show my family and friends exactly why I keep slipping away to a dance studio, only to return an hour or so later a totally happier person. Transformed. Transfigured.(Everyone likes it that I go do this.....trust me.)

Performing, though....that's transformation of a different sort. I had to learn to move BIG (to go along with the hair, of course), to exaggerate putting that arm up into the air, to hold that pose longer than seems humanly possible, to keep smiling no matter what.

Like when I unexpectedly and for no apparent reason, cut a move short and ended up turning the wrong way. I can recall standing there thinking "How the heck did I get HERE??" But I kept that smile plastered on my face, turned back the RIGHT way to get back to where I was supposed to be, and made eye contact with my instructor/partner. His look said, "Just keep going!" We knew what had happened, but as it turned out, no one else realized anything was amiss at all.

The afternoon was magical, mistake included. As I've gotten older and bumped into more walls than I care to remember (or admit) and made hundreds of mistakes, the lesson has been clear: don't ever stop...... and whatever you do, keep smiling!

Dance on!

Shock and awe.......

 “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

Douglas Adams

As a woman who is aging to perfection, steeped in the wine of time, I am still often shocked--well after I thought there was nothing left to rattle me--as well as in awe of the vagaries of the human race. Some things I know.......

• New jeans with holes up and down the legs, hanging on the rack in the department store, must be an attempt to make us look mindless. 

• When we were 16, a boy who was even 5 years older was taboo. That chasm was huge and not to be crossed on penalty of irate parents, scandalized neighbors, and the law. By the time we were 25, those 5 years had shrunk and they no longer made much difference. In fact, they added a bit of texture to a relationship. But I bet you didn't know that the same 5 years stretch again at the other end of the age spectrum, causing all kinds of mischief for us in our 60s, 70s, and older. Take my word for it.....it isn't pretty. Because.......

•   ....men of all ages want younger women. They just do. The problem is that those men hanging onto the right end of the timeline have difficulty keeping up with a woman younger than they are. In many important ways. And men younger than that same woman aren't interested, because--remember?--they want someone younger, too. Where does that leave me? I'll tell you where: women of a certain age who want a full, true relationship are stranded on that timeline, searching both ends of the spectrum. Alone. 

• Which leads me to this: I should have protected, nurtured, and cherished some of my earlier relationships so I wouldn't be stuck on this darn timeline at all.

• You can enjoy gospel or religious music without believing a word of it. There's just something joyous about it, isn't there?

•  I refuse to listen to any song that has the word "chainsaw" in it. It's just not right.

•  Why do many men refrain from using poor grammar until AFTER you've become invested as a couple? Maybe it's a sign they are truly comfortable with us, their new love. I could stand a little less comfort. Please.

•  When a man agrees in advance to "talk about things that bother us" as you launch a new relationship, his mouth is merely moving.

That's what I know.....at least for now!

It's all about "the pick".......

Marriage is not about age; it's about finding the right person.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/s/sophiabush197197.html#LmHtEiAUBA6FbuEb.99

 

 

 

Marriage is not about age; it's about finding the right person.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/s/sophiabush197197.html#LmHtEiAUBA6FbuEb.99

"Marriage is not about age; it's about finding the right person."

Sophia Bush

 

 

 



Oh, so correct.

 

I have finally come to understand that it's all about "the pick," whether it's marriage or any other long-term relationship.  Once you have thought about who YOU are and what you want in a partner, the search is on. But it's critical to have that  dialogue with yourself first.

 

This is where I always made my fatal errors, at least fatal to the longevity of my relationships. (Heck, if you add them all together, I have a great track record!) I am seduced by the fancy trappings of courtship, by the attention..... by the "sell." I should have been more thoughtful about what happens after the shiny gloss fades, who I wanted to stand next to me when the world hands out an unexpected hardship, a job loss, errant children, all of the chaos that slithers under the front door just when we think we have it all.

 

I realize now that I had no explicit instruction on how to do this. The sad part is that now that I have learned it, the window of opportunity for me to build a long-term, steadfast relationship with a partner has slammed shut. Hard enough to  break the casement in the process. That time can never be swept back up in the dustpan to be used again. Never.

 

And that IS sad.

 

I won't ever know the joy of sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch to look at pictures (yes, real glossy photographs pasted in a scrapbook) of our wedding day or our first car, first pet, first child, first grandchild.

 

I haven't built a history with someone who stood by me when that health scare struck (the one when I drove myself to the hospital for the biopsy). There is no shared frame of reference for not making the same mistakes with one child that we made with the first one. When one of us loses the ability for physical intimacy, the option of walking away isn't an option at all. The " pick" laid the foundation. And then it's about making the commitment  more than words.

 

I know two young women who are currently planning their weddings. I wish someone had told me all of this when I was 22, fresh out of college and about to marry. For the first time.

 

If someone had, maybe I would be getting ready to celebrate my 43rd anniversary.

 

Instead, I'm back at "the pick."

 

 



Shades of truth......

The opposite of "the truth" is a lie.

Right?

The older I get, the more maturity I acquire, the less I believe this.

Life used to be so precise for me. It was either right or it was wrong. White was reflection of all colors, and thus the opposite of black. Simple. Clear cut.

Not so much any more. I now view beautiful shades of pearl and silver, gray and slate, all shouldering their way into the space separating black from white on the spectrum of experience. But life is also overflowing now with paint cans of uncertainty.

It's rather disconcerting. But it forces me to listen more closely, to observe others more humanely. The truth told by one person and contradicted by another might still represent the truth. It doesn't mean that one of them is "lying." I have found that it very often means their personal experiences of the same event were vastly different or that time has molded their truth into a protective cover, one that was necessary for survival.

This happened to me recently. I heard one story, then a completely different version of that "truth." I pondered. I chewed on it. I stewed.  And then I thought, "What difference does it make to me right now, other than the fact that I simply must know 'the truth'?"

Do I really? Does it matter to my life today? Or is it all simply more drama?

Both versions painted shades of the truth for the people it encompassed. It serves some purpose for them. And even if I am one of those people, I have my own truths, too, my own recollections of how things unwrapped themselves within the context of my life. Eternally unique.

 

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” 
Oscar Wilde