Older Men, Older Women: The Same Page At Last?

My very first Huffington Blog almost a year ago back in May 2013 started off with: A gent of 75 is in love with a woman of 25. The article received a lot of attention with 228 comments and five times that many hits. It was my most successful yet in terms of number of readers. 

I suppose it may have elicited such an engaged response because there were a lot of older guys out there who'd been unsuccessful in their attempts at relationships with women their own age and were happier with younger and less experienced, less war-weary women. 

And second, based on the actual written responses that were posted, there were quite a few women who wanted to publicly declare their disappointment and sadness over the somewhat dismal dating scene in contemporary America and to proclaim loud and clear that there was nothing wrong with older women and men 20 or 30 years younger hooking up.

Fair enough. I wrapped myself around the latter notion over the next year, struggling with did I or did I not want to be with a younger guy. I can't speak for anyone else but for me the final answer was only under very special circumstances and certainly never more than 10 years younger. I'm not saying I was not seriously tempted with the very few opportunities that came my way.

It would have been fun no doubt. It certainly would have been an ego boost. And I would have learned some things about myself I might never have learned otherwise. But ultimately it was just not for me, mainly because the balance of power did not feel comfortable. It did not feel just (as in equitable and fair) for him or for me. There was something in the whole notion that made me think we were each taking advantage of the others' weakness rather than helping build the other's strength. At a certain point in life you really want the structure to stand by itself without any need to prop it up, rebuild the foundation or install drainage pipes around the property line.

Loneliness is a terrible thing. Loneliness, the gut wrenching kind that creeps in at 2:00 a.m. and wakes you up because there are no sounds except the prattle of mice or a raccoon wreaking havoc on your about to ripen tomatoes. That kind of loneliness, that emptiness eats away at your spirit in infinitesimal ways. It begins to destroy your self-esteem and makes you desperate for companionship, any companionship including the kind that puts you at risk. To some extent this kind of loneliness is self-imposed punishment, a kind of agoraphobia of the psyche that stops you from taking the chance of being hurt yet again. It takes a lot of deep healing to repair a broken heart and by the time you hit 50, unless you are one of those very rare spirits blessed with good genes, great upbringing and brilliant luck, you have scar tissue. And only you can begin to peel away the dead skin so some new healthy dermis will grow.

On the dating circuit now in 2014 it's evident there are a lot of single men hitting their 60s. They are either recently divorced or widowed with substantial wisdom and experience to offer a companion. There are also those who are sad and desperate and have been probably all their lives. There are men with no source of income due to America's ageism and the exporting of so many American jobs overseas. And there are folks just really freaked out over the idea they may die alone. You meet them all and you can learn something from each and every one.

I've found the best approach is to be kind and compassionate to everyone, be as honest as possible and take something positive away from every new experience. Just remember not to give away the kitchen sink because you don't like the sound of water dripping at 2:00 a.m. 

Being alone is not the same as loneliness after all. Being alone can be exhilarating for getting to know yourself and all the wounded parts you hide from others as well as the jubilant realizations that come from figuring out what you truly want in this last part of your life.

Wolfie, that gent of 75, finally gave up his desire for Lola in South America. But I don't think he learned as much as he needed to because now he's searching for young women here in Los Angeles. More power to him. It's his fantasy, not mine or yours. If I were to wager a bet, however, eternal youth which is what he really covets is a losing battle even in the City of Angels.

I see a desire to hold back the clock everywhere here. More so than I have ever seen it in any other city. It's sad actually. The simple truth is no matter how often you work out, how many hormone supplements you take, how much filler you get injected into your face and how many lifts stretching your skin into eternity, humans are meant to be mortal. It's how we learn, how we grow, how we truly love. Yes, let me repeat that truism: we learn to love by letting go, not by desperately clinging to anything. Older men and older women over 50? Give each other another chance. We've all learned a lot over the last 30 years. At least I hope so.

Regaining Vision: What Was Lost, Now Found

I had a cataract operation this week. No big deal, right? People get cataracts, they get them removed, they get a lens put in. Life goes on. It happens thousands of times every day throughout the world. My cataract was a very large one and was growing rapidly in my right eye. No one knew what was causing this sudden growth; they only knew it needed to be gotten rid of.

I hesitated month after month. I had the money, the insurance covered a lot of the operation, it was not an issue like it is for so many folks in the world who end up going blind. I am a white (sort of) middle class college over educated woman who at this moment in time has a roof over her head and opportunities and time afforded to few. I am privileged.  So why the hesitation to do what everyone in my social class does without, um, blinking an eye? 

Back in the late 60's when I was a kid, I can remember the precise moment I lost my clear vision. I experienced a sharp pain on the right side of my head, looked up at the elementary school stage and wham, everything was a blur. I knew something awful had just happened to me but like so much about my gut wrenching childhood, I went into denial. For a year I pretended I could see perfectly well until a sharp math teacher who'd been watching me for months squinting at the chalkboard called my mother and demanded she get me glasses. My mother was perplexed. "Why hadn't you told me?" she kept asking. "Your sister has glasses. It's nothing to be afraid of."

From that point on my geekiness was a done deal. Unlike my older sister who looked beautiful even if she were wearing a gorilla mask, I looked like the person wearing the coke bottle glasses, the big nose and the mustache mask - I now had all three for real and I was heading into adolescence. Life was going to be horrendous, I assumed. And indeed it was.

But I adjusted, learned to live with and at times revel in my misery and make out of it something unique. I wrote stories, made paintings, created a newspaper and put on plays. I became an artist of sorts. And thus I survived. Until two years ago when a lot of stuff hit the fan and I found out that if I had the cataract removed, I would be able to see once again and most likely pretty well.

On Tuesday this past week everything changed. The cataract was removed quickly and relatively painlessly and I didn't die. Except in a sense I did. Yesterday my eyesight was measured, my brilliant eye surgeon Dr. World Famous Maloney looked at me, said , "You have 20-20 vision. You look great." Huh? And then it occurred to me that maybe I should be paying attention to what he had just said. I looked up from where I was sitting, glanced around the room, stopped squinting, and everything was the sharpest and clearest it had been in 40 something years. No, it was actually sharper and clearer than the world has ever looked. Ever.

Wow.  Now I was looking at everything very closely. The tweedy colors in the jacket I was wearing. The streetlight at the corner of Wilshire and Westwood. The elderly woman crossing the street with her blue white hair and her soft brown leather jacket. The individual emerald green leaves of the tree at the corner of the street I turned down. My bright red Prius. The day old beard of the parking lot attendant with his harried and worried eyes motioning me to back out ever so slowly. All was a sudden LSD high of mind-shattering explosive color and light spontaneously spackled across a landscape that was only two days before a dull, grey, blurred image.

I could see.

And what that meant to someone whose filter has been muted, blurred and stifled for decades is life changing on some psychic level I can not yet comprehend. Everything that was old is new again. 

Maybe this is religion after all. Maybe this is god.

Men of Conviction, Compassion, Courage and Creativity

In my ongoing journey exploring "The Dating Life Over Fifty", I cover a lot of territory. At first I looked outward at what men want in women and often came up with the dismal answer (dismal for me any way): someone younger than me. Not always true but certainly far too often it is. In my more introspective moments, I explore loneliness and despair, subjects I am certain I'll return to as I meet the never ending challenges of growing old. At times I discuss gardening and growing things from nothing, tending to small creatures, creating community, supporting friends however I can and the boundless joy all that brings me. And then of course there is my love of dogs, one in particular at the moment who fills a void rarely filled by humans. (Yes, I am odd that way.) 

Throughout this process of uncovering what it really takes to have a deeply satisfying life, I try to maintain a critical acumen about men in order to understand the ones I admire and the ones I reject. What's the difference between the few and the rest of the pack? Why do some men rise above and others swim in the shallows? It's certainly not about material things. While I don't like hanging out with men  (or women for that matter) who are always sucking from the tit of another because they are not capable of standing on their own two feet, I also am unimpressed by what car you drive, what designer clothes you wear, where you live or what celebrities you hang with. I just don't care. 

So what does float my boat? What rocks my world?  Let me put it this way. A man without passion for something (besides me or his narcissistic tendencies)  is like a rudderless dingy. A sailboat sans sails. An engine with no fuel. He's a man of no interest to me or probably anyone else. 

It is passion, commitment, involvement in something larger than oneself that shouts, "Life is a gift, babe. So let's ride this wave together for as long as there is a wave to ride." Wow.

Now that's an irresistible man. And that leads me to my discovering within myself a need to set forth a series of Huffington articles about men of conviction, compassion, courage and creativity. These characteristics to varying degrees are in all the men I have chosen to write about. This does not mean I agree with everything they say, everything they espouse, everything they themselves feel passionate about. It means, however, that within each of these men exists a seed of integrity they have chosen to nurture in everyday choices they make. Are they always successful? Probably not. Who is? But their moral compass is clearly lodged inside of them. When confronted with whether or not to take the high road or the self serving road, they tend to choose the high road more times than not. 

I wondered for a long time why I felt such a strong passion for men like this. I think it is perhaps because I see the potential inside them more clearly than a lot of other folks can. The vision I have was honed inside of me during a 30 year observation of my poor, dear and now deceased father. He tried his entire life to walk a higher path than he was capable of after becoming tragically and seriously brain damaged during a vicious attack by an angry and petty co worker over nothing more than a pile of dirt. 

So there you have my Achilles heel, one that has been taken advantage of more times than I care to admit. But one that at this stage in life can spot the diamond in the rough, the good and decent man, the person who is not a player but merely is human in the best sense of what that means. And what does that mean?

My Huffington Posts.  These are guys with a clear moral compass that gets them up in the morning, pushes them out in the world, forces them to make a difference regardless if they are 40, 50, 60 or 70. They are men who do not give up no matter what life throws at them. Repeat. They do not give up. And that means they don't give up on their significant others either. They stick around emotionally, psychically and physically. They are present and available as much as they can be. They are men of conviction, compassion, courage and creativity. Enough said.

Here they are thus far...many more on the horizon...
Jim Beaver, actor and writer
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joanna-perryfolino/interview-with-jim-beaver_b_4751476.html

John Steppling, playwright and screenwriter
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joanna-perryfolino/man-of-conviction_b_4886456.html

Silvester Henderson, Professor and Gospel Impresario
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/joanna-perryfolino/love-and-equity-the-geniu_b_6155334.html



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