And then Marilyn called. “I think I might have a new boyfriend,” she said.
When I’m Sixty-Four
Like me and MNB, they, too, had met at a party in the Hamptons. And like me and MNB, it turned out that they, too, knew lots of people in common but had never met.
Until now. At the party, they talked for three hours. The next day, he called her up and asked if she wanted to go for a walk on the beach. They went at sunset and the sky was pink, and it turned out he lived near the beach and he was a surfer.
He also had an apartment in Brooklyn and a cool tech business that made environmental designs.
And he was sixty-four.
Was that too old? Marilyn wondered.
I pointed out that sixty-four was the current age of her last ex-boyfriend, with whom she’d broken up several years ago. Meaning that even though sixty-four “sounded” old, in reality, it was just the current age of people we used to know when we all were younger.
In any case, it didn’t matter. Because the best thing about this guy was that he really listened. And he really cared. And most of all, he, too, was really, really nice.
Nice Guys Finally Finish First?
And so, after all those years of barely dating, Marilyn and I somehow had boyfriends. We couldn’t believe it. And neither could our friends.
Gathering at Kitty’s to analyze these new developments, we made a list of the MNB attributes:
MNBs are nice guys. And they’re known in the world as being nice. There isn’t a string of bad gossip attached to their names. There are no rumors of them having cheated; there aren’t people going around muttering under their breath, “Yeah, but he’s an asshole.” They don’t have a string of ex-wives who hate them.In fact, “nice” is the hallmark personality trait of the MNB. And while nice didn’t matter so much in one’s twenties and thirties, now it is about the best quality a person can have. Nice is safety from the storm in a world that, it turns out, is not so very nice after all.
They’re grown-ups. They have their own lives and their own places to live. Which means they know how to do everyday stuff. Like shopping. And washing the dishes and doing the laundry. And feeding themselves.
They’re not alcoholics or drug addicts.
They’re interested in being with women who are their age.
* * *
Take Marilyn’s friend, Bob. He’s sixty-six and kind of looks it but is vibrant and attractive and curious. He told a story about being pursued by a thirty-three-year-old woman, who would show up at his house unexpectedly when he didn’t text her back. He had to explain to her at least five times that he wasn’t interested. Her attention was flattering but also annoying, especially as Bob doesn’t kid himself about where he is in life. “Look at me,” he said. “Yes, I’m in decent shape. But I look old enough to be her father. I am old enough to be her father. What’s wrong with her?”
And here’s the difference between an MNB and a hot-drop. The hot-drop is easily seduced by the younger woman, usually a woman who wants to start the reproductive cycle with him. The MNB is at a different place in his life. He’s not looking to reproduce. Nor are the women he dates.
Like Carla, fifty-four. She had a high-powered career in the city, but due to the usual vagaries of life ended up single and in the Village with her teenage son. She started her own small firm, which is flourishing. She’s got it all together. Or appears to, anyway.
What Carla is looking for in a partner is defined by what she’s not looking for this time around. “I’m 255not looking for a guy to take care of me. I’m not looking for a guy to put a roof over my head. And I’m not looking to get married.” Carla’s marriage was, she says, “damaging” and an experience that at this point she doesn’t want to repeat. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to be alone.
“I want someone to be an equal,” she says. “They’ve got to carry their share of the load. And they’ve got to be there emotionally. Because what I’ve found in life is that shit happens to all of us, and it’s just a little better if you don’t have to go through it alone.”
And that’s the other reality about dating in middle age. Shit does happen. You are dealing with people who have not only gone through stuff but may be going through it while you’re just getting to know them. Chances are, someone’s going to lose a parent. Someone’s going to lose a job. Someone’s going to lose a friend.
In this case, I was that someone.
A Cancer Christmas Tree
My father was dying. He’d survived cancer for twenty years, but now it was back.
He called me up. He told me how he’d gone to get a scan that revealed every nook and cranny of where 256the cancer had spread and the results weren’t good. “Candy,” he said. “My body was lit up like a Christmas tree.”
I went to visit him. He drove us to a restaurant, the same restaurant where we’d have the luncheon after the church and before we went to the graveyard on the day of my father’s upcoming funeral. He had it all planned out and he wanted to tell me about it.
The host led us to a table next to the window. My father was joking and charming, the way he always was. I sat down stiffly and looked out the window. Across the street was the building where my mother and her best friend started their first business, a travel agency. On Wednesdays, when school got out early, I’d take the bus an extra stop and visit my mother at her office. I can still remember the smell of paper and new carpet and fresh paint and how she and her best friend were so proud to be businesswomen.
I looked back at my father, at his gnarled hand—so similar in shape and appearance to my own—and realized I wasn’t sure I could do this. Talk to my father about his funeral while being in a MAM sectione.