In my neighborhood I see all manner of couplings: casual, interracial, bireligious. From the sidelines, I wonder, “Where are all the available men?” And by available I mean attractive, single, respectful, open-minded, intelligent and interested in me. Certain things like being economically self-sufficient, confident and self-assured are givens. I don’t expect to lower my standards any more than the next woman.
Of course, there are complications. For one, I’ve reached an age where flying solo is considered precarious. I’m good-looking—no question (at least, not in my mind). I’m self-sufficient and independent and have been for years. I’m also open to men of different races. Still, my age is an issue. I look well-maintained, but in a way that has caused men to begin to wonder how old I am, exactly.
Middle age, I think, is a time of cruel awakenings. Some harsh, some hilarious. Harsh: recognizing that I am now a member of Generation Ex: the folks past their mid-30s who register last in the minds of the decision makers: employers, advertisers, prospective lovers. Hilarious: walking into a pharmacy accompanied by my older sister and having the pretty young cashier smile and ask me, “Are you her mother?”
It used to be different. There was a time, from my early teens on up into my mid-20s, when I couldn’t walk down the street without stopping traffic. Of course, in this I wasn’t alone. All young women experience this—the time when their flesh is at its ripest and they are in their prime.
Back then, I was frightened by the way men reacted to me, so I developed a pose, a harsh exterior that at once evoked superiority and indifference. It was the only shell I found effective at keeping men at bay: a bit like an invisible bug zapper. A man, like a bug, could sense this barrier, and if he knew what was good for him would have enough sense to keep his distance.
Of course, standoffishness can outlive its usefulness. I’ve kept my alert activated all these years—long after my 20s have been a blur, my 30s skirted into the night, and middle-agedom has smacked me in the kisser like a young Mike Tyson once pounded his opponents. Men no longer notice me in the way they once did. It’s a fact of life, a necessary surrendering; the older making way for the new. At times, ego and immaturity being what they are, this is hard to take. I find myself wondering, “Is it me? Is it me? Tell me it’s not me. What has changed? I still look good, don’t I?”
Yes, of course, I do. In a new way. A way that says “attractive but … older.” The way a chipped herringbone may hold special appeal to a collector with a soft spot for period china, not with the magnetic draw that youth and fresh-faced innocence pulls us all closer.
Now I watch young women pass by and marvel at the tautness of their breasts, the tightness of their abs; even when their bellies are more plump than flat, they hold the radiance of young skin that makes them look more like a pout and less like a gut. Young men evince the same beauty and charm. I understand the appeal and know with unequivocal surety why it is that men, young and old, seek younger flesh. Even I, despite my claim to open-mindedness, find myself attracted and addicted to men a decade younger than myself.
So where does this leave me? In the ocean of middle age, trying to adjust to the waves and not get caught and sucked under by a riptide. Yearning to relax into acceptance of the inevitable—and the not awful. Wondering if I will awaken one day and find myself suddenly in sync with the predictions of the elders—married and unmarried women who warned me to wise up, loosen my standards—and latch on to the first unattached and marriage-minded man who makes me an offer. “Loneliness,” caution the soothsayers, “is the worst of old-age illnesses.”
Still I soldier on, alone but not unbearably lonely, head tilted to the wind, desiring a partner but unwilling to surrender who I am and what I want here and now for the fear of a nightmare future. Until then, I just might design and wear that T shirt.
