While everyone else (my female friends that is) are out having an evening on the town with a male companion, I’ll be sitting at home watching my telephone. No, I don’t mean my television, well, actually, I’ll be watching that too, but with one eye on the phone.
It’s like the old proverb – a watched pot never boils – well, I want you to know, a watched telephone never rings. If it does, it’s probably one of the cable companies wanting to know about my weekend television habits (how do they know I'm home alone???), or the proverbial tele-sales computer voices with a list of questions that have nothing to do with anything I'm remotely interested in…. does kind of pass the time though.
During my days at University, back in the '90s, I met this really cute, younger guy on campus. He was absolutely adorable. He started to flirt with me and I thought I should be honest and tell him I was a grandmother. His response? ….. He liked older women.
Older women? He was younger than my daughter!! The poor boy followed me all over campus that day like a little, lost puppy. I began to feel sorry for him and actually thought, for a brief moment, that he might be fun to take home and keep for a pet!
Not long after my encounter with puppy-eyes, I saw an older friend of mine at a gala event. He informed me he had a new girlfriend. My “friend” was about 67 years old at the time (pretty darn old in my opinion) and his new girlfriend was 25. I asked him what did they find to talk about. “Talk?” he said, “She don’t talk, but she sure communicates good lyin’ down.”
The following evening, I found myself at what once was considered a rather nice nightclub catering to the "slightly" older generation. I walked in and was immediately accosted by several gentlemen – one almost ran over my foot with his wheelchair.
Another gentleman took 10 minutes just to say, “Hi honey,” all the while wiping the drool away from the corners of his mouth - must have been caused by the false teeth that somehow had a mind of their own! And the other gentleman, well, let’s put it this way – it’s a good thing he had arthritis because he let his fingers do the walking.
However, the music was nice and the place had a distinct ambiance – along the coat rack was a rack for canes, and the coatroom had numbered wheelchairs. I was told the local geriatricians even had a nickname for the club – “Menopause Manor”.
I did meet a rather nice man about my age, salt and pepper hair, nice build, incredibly charming, owned his own business and drove a really cool sports car. Wow, I thought, a “real” man – until I found out about the others. There was a lady friend in Dallas, one in Atlanta, one in Mexico City and then there was The Wife!
Oh well, just my luck; they’re too young, too old or too attached.