Love and a Birthday Party

The Big Story

 

Love is on my mind for all the right reasons. (We all know what the wrong reasons are.)

 

Kim Gordon started it. She did 22 love songs at the Red Barn, which I’ll be reviewing separately. No surprise, she was a smash, to Cynthia’s ear even better than ever.

 

This mega-dose of hope, ecstasy, anguish, surprise, and even ribald humor put me in the perfect mood to counsel a friend recently single again after a fine five-year relationship ran its course. Indeed, my “counseling” him is really my vicariously enjoying his ups and downs in the field of Key West love.

 

I’ve been lucky to have to been off the field for the last 9 years, as it is more like a rugby scrum out there than, say a figure-dancing ice rink. Key West’s women of my certain age are surely the highest top-shelf in the world. Beautiful, fit, accomplished, assured, independent—ah, there’s the rub. In my quick-flash two years between my divorce and marrying Cynthia, I could date just about anyone, and I did.

 

But boy, was it tough on my male ego to NOT have these women fall head-over-heels for me. For so many of these prize Key West fillies, men are definitely optional. Especially the physical part. When I was a penniless college dropout in San Francisco in my late twenties, around nine out of ten of the women who would date me chose to enjoy the full extent of my affections. Here, in my late fifties, having made it financially and otherwise in the big wide world, it was the reverse. The main difference from my end was that in my twenties I was gorgeous (as were we all, so that many of us, like me, didn’t realize it) and in my fifties I was and still am at 66 an old man who looks the part.

 

I felt bad enough to see a woman counselor. She said a big part of her practice was counseling women my age who felt bad about losing their sex drives. Ain’t no lady Viagra, so she suggested I start chasing 40-year-olds. But I knew how that would go, because the 40-year-olds were after the 30 somethings, since I had been on the other end of the cougar thing before it was called that.

 

If I were single now, it would be particularly tragic for me, in a soap-opera silly sort of way. I have realized at my church that, after a couple of formerly coupled women have become single, there are seven, yes, count ’em, seven marvelous women in just my mid-sized church that I would be trying to date to the max. Can you imagine how embarrassingly hilarious that would be? Have you ever dated even two people from, say, your workplace? How did that go?

 

This would go so badly, especially because they are all younger and ‘way prettier than I. But I would not be able to stop myself from trying, as the very persistence of the human race depends upon us men being functionally deluded about our chances with women and pursuing them until they seek a restraining order or their brother shoots you.

 

I’d be dependent on the women to save me from myself. They are smart, spiritual women who I am sure have had long female success in dealing with my sort. I can imagine them meeting: “Comparing notes, we can see that Rick dated a different one of us every day last week.” “Yes, and he’s a great guy, and charming—but not that great, or that charming.” “What can we do to let him down easy, and not make a spectacle of himself in the church?” “Yes, we need his baritone on the Singing Team.”

 

Then they would come up with a plan. The best one I can imagine, and this is my fantasy, thank you, is that they would agree to take turns dealing with my charming advances. “Okay, who got the short straw for the first month? Think of it not as having to fend him off for a whole month, but as six months of getting to watch the rest of us take our turns.”

 

I think they are collectively wise enough that it wouldn’t come to the restraining orders, but on the other hand there might have been seven.

 

Which brings me to thanking God yet again that I grabbed my fair Cynthia so quickly once I realized I loved her, she loved me, and we got along as well together as you can hope for when you are fully formed in your golden years. None of the Spectacular Seven would be as good for me, and I for them, as is my wee Tinkerbell. It’s not just the great cooking, lovemaking, and travel together, it’s liking each others’ friends and family, and not going out at night because we never get tired of screaming at the TV news together for a couple hours over dinner.

 

Big Story: when you find The One, ne-ver let her gooooo, as the song says. Readers, some of you have told us that you appreciate the way I write about my darling. If you don’t know her and would like to see us in our natural habitat, you are invited to Cynthia’s big 7-0 on Thursday, January 22nd. That would be today, for the print edition.

 

I wanted to have it catered, but Cynthia says enough people will bring food that won’t be necessary. So I will provide drink and chips-and-cheese snacks, and if you want to make a dinner party out of it, bring a dish, and share the dishes of others so inclined. If you just want to drop in quickly to say hello and Happy Birthday! to her, that would be just fine.

 

No gifts, but a card or email would be appreciated. We’re at 1402 Olivia. Party from 6:30 until around 9. See her beaming, as I get to every day of my life….

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