I'm dating a younger man.
That's right--I'm officially a cliché.
He's the Smith Jared to my Samantha, the Ashton to my Demi, the Tim Robbins to my Susan Sarandon . . . But I'm getting ahead of myself. I never wanted to date anyone younger--not even remotely. In fact, I found the entire prospect weird--not to mention horrifying on any number of levels. For years, whenever anyone would ask me if I found a certain younger person attractive, I'd gasp in horror: "You can't be serious--he's a fucking fetus!" And I would stare contentedly into the horizon, smug in the knowledge that I was never going to be one of those people--an irresponsible, slightly pathetic, self-serving idiot that waded in someone else's age pool in some desperate attempt to cling to the remnants of their youth. Uh-huh. Right. Not me. I'm also not even remotely as old as Demi or Susan, but I guess that's beside the point . . .
Now, I probably don't need to point this out, but the problem with saying the word "never" repeatedly, is that it always comes back to bite you in the ass--often when you least expect it. If you are passionate about a certain issue and express your so-called moral superiority regularly, do not be surprised if eventually, the exact thing you've preached against your entire life falls into your lap like the biggest mess ever. When it happened to me, I searched my heart for the kind of honesty that makes you suddenly cognizant that the best therapist is often yourself--and realized that I'd been wrong all these years. Dead wrong. After all, the problem with making sweeping generalizations about any situation--but particularly affairs of the heart--is that these kinds of statements are mostly about situations themselves--not people. And I ended up falling in love with a person. That being said, I have no particular wisdom to impart, and my love life is often more of a mess than not, but I do know this: Next time you say the word "never" aloud, you better stop and ask yourself this question: Are you SURE it can't happen to you?
When I met my now-boyfriend, I was going through an ugly divorce and, as a result, I was emotionally vulnerable in a way I hadn't been in years. And he was so . . . sweet--and persistent. Sweet and persistent were like favorite cousins that I'd fallen out of touch with years ago. When they showed back up, I was so grateful for their return that it made me defenseless--and kind of stupid. "You're HERE? You're BACK? You mean you came looking for me after all these years? YIPPPEEEE!" I blew him off for weeks, but he wouldn't take no for an answer--he emailed me repeatedly, cramming my inbox with notes that made me smile on opening them, and phrases that made my face turn the most curious shade of crimson. He made me dinners and took me for joyrides across cornfields under a glowing mid-western moon. I was seriously besotted. And I liked flirting with him--I hadn't had this much fun in years. It was harmless, I told myself, just a little crush. Nothing I couldn't handle. To be honest, if I'd been in a more stable frame of mind, he wouldn't have had a chance--I've built emotional walls so high and thick over the years that you'd need superhuman strength and agility to scale them. But, at that moment in time my defenses were down--and I began to feel things I hadn't felt in a very long time--desire and excitement. Hope. And, eventually, love.
I don't know exactly when things changed. I couldn't tell you when we stopped talking about how it couldn't possibly work out between us, and just began to live in the moment. But eventually, it happened. We stopped letting societies expectations define us. And, I think it goes without saying that I have an amazingly supportive group of friends who happen to be glaringly honest--but always have my back. When I finally introduced my new love to the people I cared for most in the world, few of them questioned it. "You look so happy," is the comment I heard most often. And I was--maybe for the first time ever.
Time passed. I published my first novel--as well as the novels of other amazing writers I'm proud as hell to support--took a trip to Eastern Europe in the dead of fucking winter, and bought a beagle puppy named Sigmund. Little by little, one step at a time, we built a world. But most importantly, I began to let go of the manufactured concept of the future I'd built in my mind (well, I still struggle a bit with that one), and stopped worrying so much about whether what I was doing was "right." Maybe I'd have children someday and maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I'd never get married again. These were questions so big that I couldn't see my way around them--much less come up with coherent answers. But for the first time in my life I was leaving my options open--and it felt right.
Now its two years later, and we're still together, getting ready to take the next step by combining our books, beagle puppy, clothes, and other assorted detritus together in an apartment of our own--a space that belongs to both of us. A place where, with any luck, we'll continue to go deeper than we ever thought possible.
Age? "It ain't nothing but a number, nothing but a number . . ."