Midlife men dating youre notice

It was like that Disney movie where a disgraced lion is incapable of facing responsibility, so he leaves home and wallows with some idlers, trying to drown the anguish of not living up to his true purpose by singing “Hakuna matata! But there was no use beating anybody up about it, not even myself.Here’s what’s happened in the past year — two girlfriends have gotten engaged, and one has her condo on the market and is looking with her boyfriend to buy a new place and move in together. So, because of that and the fact that we live longer, she says, it’s worth putting the time and energy into looking for love regardless of your age.

Either way, I behaved like a cranky senior who didn’t get any visitors except this one junior orderly. We lived in the most expensive city in America; carrying us both made me feel superior.“Babe,” he once called to ask, “is it OK if I go out tonight with my coworkers? And be here in the morning.”When he showed up at my house — still bleary from tequila shots, explaining that he had lost his cell phone at a bar and blacked out — I launched into a matronly reprimand about his bad choices and how he couldn’t afford to replace his phone with the child support he owed.“And don’t think I’m going to buy you a phone and reward your dumb behavior.”He glared at me, quivering like that kid from Stanley Kubrick’s , and said, “I’m sorry. “It’s this Hollywood classic where a faded actress keeps a younger man. He bowed out the door peacefully, and I chased him barefoot down Fillmore Street, feeling mean-spirited and craven.

What I did was relax, letting myself simply be worshipped. What was even more revealing was when he shared his history with older women: his last serious girlfriend was almost my age. He left her during a tense recovery, when the healthy baby and the infirm mother both needed someone to wipe their tushies. Instead, he took the infant to live with an attractive rural woman he had met on Facebook, somehow got kicked out of there, lost custody of the kid to his half-sister, and six months later escorted me to a near-empty gastropub that charged for Brussels sprouts.

Then he told me that his worst day had been when his mother sexually abused him. As Nietzsche said, sometimes we show compassion to the unlucky because we are just glad it is not us.

We were at a bar in the Mission District (the shantytown part of the hood where people pitch tents on the sidewalk) and I was perched contentedly in his lap when a drunken woman paused her winning streak at the pool table, telling us, “I want what you have, guys.” And to him, “You treat this woman right; she’s beautiful.”He ignored the flattery and after a few minutes turned to me, saying, “The only time you’ve said you loved me was the time I tried to break up with you.” I gave a tight smile and continued our pose as the enviable couple.

Later, holding hands on the walk home, he attacked something I had said that was ungrammatical. ”“No, I’m Obama,” he said, and shook loose from my hand.

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