Now, if this post were a writing assignment and I were grading this um mini-revelation, I probably would've scribbled down a comment along the lines of, "Dear student, how in the world is the above um mini-revelation in any way relevant to the title of this text? It isn't catchy, it isn't short." But don't you worry, blogger buddy. I'm getting there. You didn't accidentally stumble into one of my lesser classes on how to write academically and get away with it. The point I'm trying to make is that 41 years down the line, I've come to realize that I should've stuck to women my own age, and so should you. Let me tell you why.
First of all, it's hard to keep up. I didn't say it's hard to keep it up. It's hard to keep up. Very hard, not rock hard. Get that mind out of the gutter. I mean it's hard to keep up when your fledgling little girlfriend or budding wife (or both) are full of energy and you are not. Ancient myth has it that younger women keep you young. Well, that may seem to be the case at first, but consider this: You don't want to go there all over again. Go where? Not there. Get your mind out of the gutter. What I mean is, you don't want to relive the same dreams you used to have and she has right now. You don't want to walk the same ole pathway to maturity — especially since you already know that you will never make it to the final stop anyway. Doing things all over again is a bore, especially when, like me, you've done more things than your Momma would be proud to know.
Women tend to live a great deal longer than us, hunky men, so before you start priding yourself on the youthfulness that is your latest conquest, think about how long she will get to enjoy your pension while you, sir, are rotting in your shallow grave. I mean that in a good way. Do the math. She is younger plus men die sooner. Take me, for example. I'm 46. My wife is 34 (I think). By the time I retire (should I be so lucky), she will still be going strong professionally speaking for another decade. Here's my advice: make sure your youthful princess is rich — you know, like a princess. That way, she will be able to retire and still have some cheese on her bread, say, when you, on the other hand, have to retire. Otherwise the chances of the two of you simultaneously reaping the fruits of retirement on Bora Bora are pretty slim at best. It's a bit like sex that way: ideally you'd like to come at the same time and not be dead by the time she finally hits that high note.
Hey, let's not be selfish and imagine things from her perspective. The majority of the men in my family don't live to see the age of 75. What that means statistically is that the expiration date of her adorable husband — me — is, what, 2045, i.e. 29 years from now. Being 12 years younger than me, she will still have an entire life ahead of her in which my role is reduced to looking cute in a dirty picture frame. That sucks. If she loves me, she feels the same way. When I'm 75 and gone with the wind, floating on a giant blue suede shoe, she will be 63. What is she to do without me? How will she be able to smile without my daily routine of cursing at a world inhabited by backstabbers and skinny jeans fetishists? I don't want her to be blue and lonely. I don't want her to have to soldier on like Christmas were just an illusion. We're talking two decades at least. That's kindergarten, junior high and high school all rolled up into one.
Only a time machine would do the trick. That's so depressing in my book, Doc. I might need the address of that future rejuvenation clinic you mentioned earlier, back in 2015, to get a whole natural overhaul. I just want to take out some wrinkles, do some hair repair, have my blood changed, basically have a good 30 to 40 years added to my life. While they're at it, I might even entertain the notion of getting my spleen and colon replaced. What do you think? Or should I just double down on my good-looks-is-all-it-takes quick fix of botox? What say you?
So, yeah, there's the wrinkles and stuff. Wrinkles and stuff are a bitch. Great Scott, they are a whole pack of bitches when, like me, you are married not only to a woman nearly 12 years your junior but a woman who is nearly 12 years your junior (did I mention she is nearly 12 years my junior?) AND who also looks like she is a whopping 10 years younger than her ID wants you to believe. Think about it. "You're beep beep a spring chicken. I'm so jealous, Blue." Get your mind out of the gutter. I thought you were a vegetarian. What I mean is... there comes a point when the age difference is all too obvious, especially to yourself. When Michael Douglas married Catherine Zeta-Jones, we hunky guys all thought that was a very cool move. Way to go, Michael! Now he looks like a little old man next to his dashing 46-year-old wife. Wait a minute.... she is my age!
The bottom line is that, much as I love younger women and fantasize about them on a regular basis (though not as regularly as I used to), when push comes to shove reality has a nasty habit of biting you in the proverbial nuts and, like my nutless friend Mongo The Overweight Cat, I more often than not choose to return to the safety of my friendly couch and smile at my own foolishness. Younger women... who needs them anyway? At least Vera was my own age.
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|When will then be now?|