Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [17]
On the rare occasions when I would send a periscope up to survey the possibilities around the edges of the dating pool, no one looked as tanned and glowing as they did the last time I had checked.
So there we all were, sallow, grouchy, sunburned survivors of a million rancid romantic entanglements, shivering in the shallow end of the pool and pissed off that I was using swimming pool metaphors because it meant we all had to look at each other in swimwear. Even worse was the realization that our only choices were forcing ourselves to date again or total abstinence.
And now that we’d reached this crossroads, the only thing the bunch of us had in common was our very specific egocentrically derived lists of the things we could no longer tolerate.
Obviously, a lot of the older males had decided they preferred younger women. Their motivation needed no explanation not covered by the word “duh.” There was also a less obvious second reason that these geezers sought out the youngsters. Young women, bless their little pinheads, manage to convince themselves that once the word “Love” is in play, they can single-handedly fix any problems that may arise by making a few simple hair and wardrobe adjustments. Only women under twenty-five believe that working your way through a women’s magazine’s list of “102 new things that he says turn him on” will affect anything except that magazine’s advertising rates.
Older women, even by their mid-thirties, have their own strategies for eliminating candidates. Many have been to therapy, read a few self-help books, or watched a lot of Oprah. Thus they stare grim-faced, eyes rolling, when confronting men their own age who are trying to recycle the antique repertoire of vintage relationship bullshit they got away with in their twenties. The counterarguments these men like (for example, “How was I supposed to know?” or “I don’t get why that is such a big deal”) sound a lot more pathetic coming from a dude who looks like someone’s corny father.
“You’ve got to be kidding me” is not the response these men want to hear.
In my own case, by the time I was attempting resocialization, I had consumed and digested so much therapeutic advice via shrinks, books, radio, television, and the Internet that I couldn’t lay eyes on a new man without making a mental catalogue of his flaws. Halfway through his first sentence, I would have him filed by psychological and emotional dysfunction. I would have decided whether he was a primary or secondary narcissist or sociopath, a substance abuser, a depressive, bipolar, an obsessive-compulsive, a hysteric, a neurotic, or a delightful combination of them all. I would also be looking for the iceberg tips of dangerous issues lurking in his mannerisms, his facial expressions, his vocal inflections, and the contents of his refrigerator.
So specific and extensive was my checklist of human frailty that for the next twelve years I shared my home only with a large herd of dogs and their tumbleweed-sized wads of floating hair. It was lonely, but not all that lonely. My dogs were enthusiastic supporters of everything I did. They not only overlooked my flaws, they embraced and celebrated them. My weakest, most halfhearted attempts at cooking were greeted as though they were culinary achievements. When I was too lazy to shower, they liked that better than when I dressed up.
I began to see myself as their alpha, a canine-pack-dwelling Jane Goodall (minus all the tedious research and charity work). And in those years of solitude and contemplation, I tried to pursue a regimen of peace, maturity, and self-esteem (by which I mean attempting to limit myself to two despondent statements per day about “not having a life”).
Eventually, though, I hit critical mass and had to admit that I really did want to be a part of another