There was safety in the shadows, but also a kind of darkness. Even worse, I couldn't say why I didn't want to go with him.
In tenth grade, we made friends with a group of older guys who hung out on the main street of town, which ran parallel to the local university — guys who'd once gone to our same high school and had never left the social scene. " "So, no normal 20 year old wants to hang out with someone who is 15. Stay away from him." This was the sort of thing that always led to my leaving the room in a teary huff, maintaining loudly that she Just Didn't Understand. One Saturday, the guys planned a picnic in a nearby forest park. All I had was my instinct and discomfort — a bad gut feeling. When I write novels, there is always a clear trajectory: the beginning, middle, climax, and end.
We were still at an age where our parents insisted on treating us like children. After awhile, my friend and her boyfriend disappeared, leaving T. What I do remember is sitting on a couch with T., him putting on a Elton John song and telling me, in words I can't recall specifically, that he wanted to be my boyfriend. I just recall being almost to my house, when I told T.
"They can smell me a mile away," she told me after she chatted with him about restaurants, real estate, his children, and his grandchildren, while the rest of us kids enjoyed a game of floating beer pong in the pool. "I don't want you to get hurt, dear," she whispered with reserved aplomb.
"He is married, you know." Megan isn't a homewrecker and by the time we made it back to Los Angeles, with the help of Tinder we found her another suitable match, Gary, 68, an accomplished businessman who lives in San Francisco, vacations in Palm Springs, and loves golf.
When they weren't doing BMX and skateboard tricks in front of the post office, they were spending what money they had at the nearby arcade, or spinning on stools and shooting straw wrappers in their favorite burger joint, just across the street. "I don't want you hanging around with someone that much older than you." "Mom." I'm sure I rolled my eyes. Once again, she was treating me like a child, someone unable to make her own decisions. It didn't seem like such a big deal, as my best friend was doing nothing sneaking around to be with her boyfriend. Suddenly, I wasn't that scared, invisible girl anymore, watching from the sidelines. I remember it was a gorgeous fall day, crisp and cool, and the first time I'd had Brie cheese and red wine. With real life, however, and memory especially, it is harder to keep things so neat and organized. In the first, I snuck out of the house with a guy friend who lived down the street. My friend came back, we went home and I slid back into my bed. The second incident I remember happened when he was giving me a ride home.
There was something especially cool about being friends with them. I was wearing a Bundeswehr tank top I'd gotten at an Army supply store and faded jeans, a thrift shop crucifix around my neck. But as we sat there together in the sunshine, the wine buzzing my head, I suddenly felt … Many memories remain fuzzy, but incidents such as that day in the forest remain in crisp detail. It was late and my parents were asleep as we drove over to the house where T. At some point, my friend left to go somewhere, and for whatever reason I didn't go with him. Maybe he only stepped out to go to the store down the block. This was after the night at his house, though how much later I cannot say. "That's your mom talking." I told him that this wasn't true: it was my choice.
Gary was smitten over message and they met up in between Los Angeles and Palm Springs a few days later. Throughout the weekend, as I explained Megan's preferences to my college girlfriends in their early thirties, they made a face like they had swallowed sour milk and erupted in a chorus of, "That's gross," "ewwwww," and my personal favorite, "he's like my grandpa." To be fair, Uncle Jack was actually someone's grandpa.
Megan's quick-witted retort is to rattle off the names of male celebrities who are sexagenarians, septuagenarians, and even octogenarians who you would probably sleep with: Harrison Ford, 71, Clint Eastwood, 83, Jack Nicholson, 76, Robert Redford, 77.
Talking to many women like her, it’s intriguing how many look back on past relationships where they let good men get away because they weren’t ready.
American journalist Kate Bolick wrote recently in The Atlantic about breaking off her three-year relationship with a man she described as ”intelligent, good-looking, loyal and kind”. SOURCE: Why Women Lose the Dating Game I see a poetic yet depressing symmetry in this: the women who rejected the introverted, budding alpha in their 20s now seek them in their 30s—but can’t have them because they’re dating younger, more attractive versions of themselves. Courtship really is a harsh petri dish of evolutionary psychology.
"It's not for everyone but I prefer to be with a man that has already conquered his world and wants to enjoy the rest of his life," she told me. Donnie seemed like a loose cannon, much too unpredictable. I am perfectly capable of doing the above myself but a real gentleman would never even think to have me do such a thing. A man in his sixties is not going to wait five years or even two to commit.
Long story short, I worked really hard on my card to George H. His birthday was coming up so I did a charcoal drawing of his face and wrote a birthday message." The hard work paid off. I like a strong man that was raised when it wasn't abnormal to open your door, pull out your chair, and carry a heavy bag. To treat a woman like a LADY is the norm with a man in his sixties. At this point in the game, they have their shit together and they know what they want.
This entire wicked game of courtship and mating is a disease that comes with our mortal, animal nature.