When I was in my early 20's I dated a guy in his late 40's. It was horribly exciting, particularly to my young [idiotic] mind, I foresaw it as a "mature" relationship filled with theater dates, martini bars, thoughtful discussions about Don Quixote, Old Man and the Sea and the Canterbury Tales. These, and many others, had made such an impression on me over the years, that I was anxious for someone that knew them as well. The guys my age I was with in those days didn't know who the Wife of Bath was, nor could they care less that Dulcinea resonated with me, not only because of the proximity of our names, but also due to the allusion as she was portrayed, I felt like, as if, I too was living an illusion. So, when that 40 year old came into my life, my feeble [okay, fantasy minded] brain believed that it would be different than what I knew; that I could be the *real* me, no longer the false impressionist and delusional girl. I forgot to take into consideration that if the guys my age had not read those novels, there was a very good chance that the man in his 40's could have cared less too. Just because he was older, it did not mean he was any wiser. Hell, I wasn’t wise, had I bothered then to appreciate boys for what they were; I might have had a bit more fun, enjoyed my youthful years so much more than I did. It took a month, with the 40 year old, before it was evident that he was no more mature than his younger counterparts, it took three months for it to run its course.
In retrospect, he turned out to be one of the most irresponsible men I have met. I think he actually was trying to recapture his youth, live it vicariously ... No martini bars with him, more like clubs where all you had to be was 18 to get in ... No theater dates, rather movies so juvenile that it bordered on mind numbing ... no thoughtful [or otherwise] dialogue on any novels, he never bothered to read any of them … and sex? Well to say that it was pleasant would actually give it more justice than it deserved, it was not making love, it was fast, hurried, there were no pleasantries, no caresses, nothing resembling passion. We were not compatible in any way, and he was surprised when we ended, however, not so stunned, it seems, that, when a month later I introduced him to a vacuous 19 year old he was elated. They lasted two years. Then, according to him, she was just too old and no longer much fun to hang with. He had just turned 50.
She had just started her college sophomore year.
Thankfully, my allure to older men didn’t end with him, and a few years later I met and had an exquisite relationship with a gentleman in his late forties (I was just leaving my twenties). With him, I discovered Victor Hugo, Stephen Crane, and rediscovered Hemingway. With him I saw my first musical, smoked my first cigar, went to my first gallery, he was the embodiment of what I envisioned when I was younger, he made me believe that I wasn’t foolish for dreaming. He was my bona fide first love … and my first proper heartache. I knew he had gotten got sick shortly after we met, but, per his request, not something we ever discussed or focused on, I didn’t prepare for the hurt that, expectantly, and in the end, came to pass. I wasn't ready to let go, to say goodbye … I didn’t see him in his final days, never got that last kiss, never saw his gorgeous eyes bright with laughter again. Denial is a superbly delusional state of mind, it helped with the thoughts that the connection and peacefulness we shared was forever gone … Extremely selfish of me, I know.
I thank him, everyday still, and, I think, have measured all others, since, to him.
