Is There Sex After 60? (Navigating Single Life After 60)

Today I woke up in my usual semiconscious state and after a few minutes of just staring vacantly at my ceiling fan going round and round which makes me slightly dizzy, I walked over to the other side of the room to turn on my cell phone to check if there had been any emergencies that have come to light, with the light of dawn.  I first check my messages and then I usually read the joke my good friend from the South has sent to me on my text. This usually produces my first smile or laugh of the day.  Lately I have been getting a few messages from my long, lost, “was-band” in the form of a joke or two, or a question about my possible move to a less expensive apartment in the very near future.   I delete all of the ads on my emails that have arrived overnight, and then I face the harsh reality of checking my bank accounts: business, personal, and the reserve line.  Today I was relieved to see that all of the checks that I have cashed and the on-line banking that I have used to pay most of my latest bills, have cleared. I have a plus balance in all three accounts.  If I were to tell you what those balances are today you would be surprised.  They are all on the plus side but miserably, small for a woman in her 60’s.  This isn’t unusual for men and women in their 60’s. It is a sad state to be in as a senior woman who has a son living with her for the moment, as well as three (yes, count ‘em’) three rescued pets, in a very nice, two bedroom, two bath, apartment with a dining area, a washer / dryer, a balcony with a breathtaking view and a comfortable office for me to handle my small business as well as writing my weekly (well, usually weekly) post for my blog.   Several situations have led me to this dismal financial state.  I won’t go into detailed circumstances of my very fragile financial state as there are several incidents that no one could have predicted two years ago, before my move to the big city, that have contributed to my present position.  Am I able to see any light at the end of the tunnel?  Well, there are a few little strands of light that might be splintering through the dark tunnel.

There are some good things that come with struggling through financial woes.  One, you don’t worry as much about anything else that might be rising with the dawn.  You really only concentrate on paying your immediate bills while contemplating new ways to earn more money.  This is tricky after one hits the grand old age of 60.  Not many businesses are interested in hiring men and woman over sixty. It is a reality and a true, harsh, reality.  I interviewed for two jobs in the last few months.   Actual shock registered on the face of the twenty-nine –year-old woman who was interviewing me.  One woman looked at me and said, “You aren’t the woman I spoke with on the phone are you?” “Yes, I am”, I answered while trying to smile, a youngish smile.   “I guess that I have a young voice.”  I managed to keep smiling while answering her.  Now I don’t look like a teenager but I am hoping that I don’t look my age either.  I’m not a beauty, but you know, nice looking for 67 years without the help of any plastic surgery.   Hey, just six months ago while taking my second trip to the hospital in an ambulance,  (I won’t go into the reason for that trip … good news, it’s nothing serious) the 30ish pretty woman taking my vitals asked me if I was 56 or 46 years old.  (I still wish I had that on tape to replay for my family who look at me with very doubtful frowns when I mention that to various friends.)

Here is another good thing about having financial problems.  (What could that be you might be asking yourselves?)  Well, you set your priorities in a logical manner.  I stopped concentrating on my health.  Do I have a pain here or there?  Yes, but these are the least of my problems.  Can I die?  Sure, but it better not be today because I have that schedule to fill out and those invoices to send.  Therefore, dying has to be postponed for a day or two or to sometime in the future after I have paid those bills staring me in the face.  Retirement?  Are you joking?  There will be no retirement for me.  EVER!  So, what is the good news?  I will keep working while keeping my small business running and I will keep writing.  One of these days surely someone will contact me and suggest that I write a column in the local paper and or an agent will come knocking on my door with a contract in hand promising me a huge amount of money to write a book or to turn my script into a movie!  Financial success awaits!  Financial issues can be a sort of interesting divergence from everyday problems and worries. Arthritis?  Who can think about arthritis when looking for a new, nice apartment for my son, my three pets and myself, with a possible view of the ocean, … somewhere in the U.S.A.?  Man in my life?  Are you kidding?  Listen, it would be nice, but right now, I have to move, keep moving, keep living and as I often say, in this very blog, I have to keep on keeping on!

Now, speaking of worth.  What am I worth?  What are you worth?  For some reason I have always known my worth.  It comes from inside.  Either you feel that you have a worth or you don’t. It’s funny but no one can give you a feeling of your own worth.  Isn’t it odd how many rich, and seemingly successful people aren’t happy or fulfilled? I especially try to hold in my anger , when a good-looking, successful, wealthy, healthy, person, professes to be depressed or suicidal.  Listen, fellows, just place your selves in my shoes for a moment.  I’m working hard, to keep on working hard.     Occasionally, I have been surprised at a person’s view of me…. let’s say, not a very complimentary view of me.  I had a dear, longtime, friend in the last year who stopped talking to me.  I never found out why or what I had possibly done to upset her, to never want her to speak to me again.  Puzzling? Sure.   Am I devastated?  No, I am not.  I have tried to live my life without hurting or embarrassing anyone.  I know my own worth so I don’t need to make anyone else feel, less.  If you know who you are and what you are worth all you have to give to others are good feelings, kindness, and a helping hand, if it is at all possible.  So, am I unhappy? No, I am not.  Worried? Sure.  Who wouldn’t be slightly worried about their future?  Do I have faith in myself? Do I think everything will turn out for the better? Sure I do.  Why? (As the hair care ad on TV, says)“Because, I’m worth it!“  

Until Next Week…

 So far this year, as we were moving onto summer I have bought three different bags of cherries. Cherries are my very favorite fruit, along with tomatoes (yes, tomatoes are in the fruit family) and lemons and blood oranges. I love cherries so much that I even eat cherries that aren’t very flavorful. This year all three bags haven’t had much taste. Doesn’t matter too much to me because, if I like something, I like it, no matter what. My taste hasn’t changed that much though the years. I have a few foods that have been my go- to meals when I am sad or not feeling too well or when I need to support my mental state with a special, “Happy Meal” My own “happy meal”, usually revolves around small shell noodles with Hunts Tomato Sauce and a nice chunk of butter, salt and pepper and Parmesan on the top, shaken from a can. Everyone who has known me from the age of three or four, through high school and college and beyond … knows this about me. Even in college I would make this simple pasta dish for my friends in my dorm room with just a hotpot to use for me to boil the noodles. I believe I made a whole group of my friends addicted to this feel-good snack. In college I became so famous for this dish that I could imitate the sound of stirring the pasta with the tomato sauce. My friends would say, “Make your sound of noodles being stirred” and I would make the curdling sound with my mouth and tongue. Oh yes, I had many natural talents or highly skilled attributes, which so far, have not made me rich. Ah well, back to my story. I also make homemade chicken soup with dumplings. This always helps if I am feeling blue. I cook it for a few hours while the smell permeates through the air. Then I make the dumplings and drop them in the boiling soup, a spoonful at a time, until they are cooked through. I make hard dumplings. They are the most satisfying. I like the soup to be salty. I only like to make chicken soup if I am able to make a half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a plate next to my bowl of chicken soup. One more thing, I have to have with this meal is, an ice-cold glass of milk. The milk can be skim, 2% or whole milk… it doesn’t matter to me… it just has to be ice cold. I have a few other things that can make me smile or feel better no matter what is going on in my life. I will list them not in any particular order. Ice Cold Champagne, Margaritas on the rocks with salt, Dirty Martinis with lots of olives, almost any ice cold white wine, Perrier, also ice cold, lemon cake, my mother’s Angel Food Cake with her cherry glaze frosting (my mother is no longer with us … now she is the angel so I don’t eat this cake anymore), potato chips and onion dip, Cherry or Apple pie … must be hot with vanilla ice cream and ice cold milk to drink, Pretzels, buttermilk, sour dill pickles wrapped in a piece of summer sausage, herring, only vinegar and onion herring, eaten out of the jar. I know sort of unusual however, my mother liked herring and I picked up the habit.

These are all my favorite foods that I have loved since I have been eating solid foods well with the exception of the alcohol. When I like something, I like it, forever. This goes for lots of my likes and dislikes. Movies, TV shows, books and yes, even people. If I like you and take the time to know you then by golly, I like you for life. I hate pudding, I have always hated pudding and I still hate pudding. There isn’t a pudding on earth that I would like. If I were starving … would I eat pudding? Yes, only if I were starving. I’m not crazy.

You might be wondering when I will be getting to my point of this blog.

If I have taken the time to talk to you, to write you and to talk to you in person, or on the phone, and if I have made myself vulnerable by getting to know you and letting you get to know me then, like it or not, I like you and I will probably like you, forever. That is just who I am and I can’t help it. Now, I have really, good friends that have drifted out of my life. I am not sure if it was on purpose or if it just happened as we moved on with our lives, however, am telling you right now, that if we used to be close friends, as far as I am concerned, we are still friends. If I run into you after many years apart, I am still going to be thrilled to see you. I still want to catch up on your life and everything I have missed since we last spoke. Need help or a shoulder to cry on… I am still here and I want to help, if I can help, in anyway. I’m loyal, and yes, I would say, I am loyal to a fault. I have been in like in my life and I have been in deep like and I have been in love, and I have been deeply, madly, and truly, in love. When these friendships or likes or love or deep loves have moved on did I stop caring, or liking or loving? No, I did not. A few times in my life (thankfully in the past) I have been devastated with severe and overwhelming grief, due to the loss of a friend or loved one or the loss of what I had considered to be a real romantic love.

Thank heavens, I have aged and grown stronger and tougher as the years have rolled on. I don’t feel devastated by rejection, disappointed? Sure, upset? Okay, for a bit, but now to quote my very favorite actress of all time who has recently passed away, “Que, Sera, Sera. If I liked you I’m sorry but my own feelings haven’t changed. I like you and I probably always will. If I loved you then that probably hasn’t changed either. Maybe it isn’t truly and madly or deeply, anymore, but I probably still love some part of you. Consider the way I have never been able to walk away from a really good bowl of cherries, even bad cherries. I can’t help it, my likes, stay the same. You can walk away and some people have walked away. That’s okay too. Judy Garland sang about life in a fabulous song, “Life is just a bowl of Cherries.” Look up the words to that song. Try to live that life.

Until Next Week…

Songs mentioned in the post: Que Sera, Sera   singer,Doris Day Published, 1951 Written by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans

“Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (Love, Judy Garland’s rendition) Written by Ray Henderson and Lew Brown Published, 1931.

My father didn’t sit down with his children often, to have heart to heart talks, however, one night I remember he sat with me in our den that we also referred to as, the TV room.  He turned on a movie and sat with me.  He suggested we have a brandy together.  My father wasn’t really a drinker so this surprised me.  I honestly can’t remember how old I was at the time; maybe, I was in my last year of high school or on vacation from college?  We sipped our glasses of apricot brandy and proceeded to watch the film on TV.   In this particular film there were two men digging a hole and talking.  We sat and watched for a few minutes and then my father turned to me and said, “You know any movie that has two guys digging a hole for five minutes…. is a movie that has nothing to say, and is a waste of time.” My dad got up to turn the channel. (Yes, in those days one had to get up off of the couch to change the channel. A person had to turn a dial to change the channel by hand. There was no such thing as  a remote control.)   A light went off in my head.  It was the best basic critique of a film that I have ever heard of before or since.   That was my father in a nutshell.  He wasn’t a phony or a huge conversationalist.  He immediately got right to the point.  I never forgot that night.  Why? I guess it was one of those moments that my father sat and talked to me.  That night he treated me as another adult instead of his little girl.  He told me that he didn’t like the taste of alcohol and didn’t really like to drink. He mentioned that he only drank when he had to travel for work.  He would stop and have a few drinks in a bar at night before heading to his hotel room. He admitted to being sad and lonely on the road.  This shocked me.  My father, sad and lonely? I never thought of him as a lonely person.

The first night my parents arrived home after dropping me off at college my mother told me that my father stood in my bedroom for a long time.  He told my mother that it wasn’t the same without me.  I was so surprised that I made a difference.  True, I was the middle child.  I had one sister 6 years older and one sister 7 years younger. Somehow being in the middle I never considered myself of having an important impact or role in the family.  My first two years in college must have been difficult for my mother and my younger sister because my father was caught cheating with another woman.  I tried to keep everyone together calling long distance from my dorm in Iowa. (This was a time before cell phones. We had four pay phones that were located in the hallway of our dorm.) My father got on the phone with me and told me not to worry that he would take care of the situation.  He didn’t, but I guess he tried.

 The first Halloween away from home my father sent me a crystal ball from Tiffany’s that sat on a crystal post.  My father said that I looked like his grandmother who was a fortune-telling gypsy. It was a sort of secret in our house that I had the ability to see the future and I had been known to see ghosts every now and again as a child and later as an adult.   The crystal ball was one of my prized possessions that I lost in a move.

My father wrote me long letters while in college, in long hand on the front and back of lined tablet paper, that he must have had on his desk at work.  I loved hearing about his feelings and his work and his travels.  He often wrote me when he was traveling to the Far East. Many years later I realized that writing me must have made him feel that he was connected to home.  In one of his letters he mentioned that he often had to walk down dark very spooky alleys in Korea or Singapore or Hong Kong and he realized that someone could come up from behind him and slit his throat and no one would ever know what had happened to him.  This was in 1970 and 1971 when my father would be the only American he would sometimes see in a 24-hour period.  My dad did business in all of these countries without speaking anything but English. Ninety percent of the time he didn’t even have a translator with him. He was usually all-alone.  In his no nonsense manner he could conduct business probably using pictures that he would draw with a pen or pencil.

Dad had more energy than any person I have ever known in my life.  He would normally wake up in those days at 5 A.M. or 6 A.M., even while traveling, in Korea or Hong Kong or Singapore, and dad would put on a pair of white shorts and a white short sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and he would jog through the streets of whatever city he was in.  This was long before most people jogged in the U.S.A.  Dad told me that most people would look at him as if he were running in his underwear.   In the early 70’s jogging was an unusual form of exercise in the Far East. If there was a pool or a tennis court in his hotel or nearby he would swim laps and try to get someone to play tennis with him or hire a tennis coach to hit with him. He would work all day and I guess at night he would probably sit at a bar and have a few drinks.  Later he would often go to his room and write me a nice long six-page letter.  My dad would sign his letters, “Love, Father Norm” When my college friends would glance at the letters on my desk from my dad they all thought that a priest was writing me.  No wonder I had a “goody-two-shoes” reputation at college.

Dad had is faults.  He was a philanderer.  He couldn’t help himself.  His good, was really good and his bad, was pretty bad.  As a father he was perfect for me.  He had what a lot of people would have considered as a difficult childhood. My dad loved telling us stories about his childhood. He was street smart and tough.  He looked back on most of his childhood as happy.  He sold papers as a kid, he was a small thief.  Dad would often take food from large grocery stores.  He always got away with it, as he could outrun the police by jumping over fences.  He sold Chicago newspapers next to bars at night because drunks give big tips.  He was a creative, strong, handsome, hardworking, interesting, positive, man. He was often thoughtful and kind. He built a business from almost nothing to a business that he sold to Pillsbury in mid-1970.  We are no longer associated with his business but it still has his name and my maiden name on the boxes in stores all across the country and the world. His former company still sells many of the items he created from nothing. He was proud of his business, he was proud of becoming a Navy Pilot in WWII and he was proud of his three daughters.  Miss you, daddy. Happy Father’s Day!

Until Next Week…

Today is 75 years from D Day. The day men from all over the United States stormed the beaches of Normandy.  They were really young men.  I visited the cemeteries in France where men are buried from WWI and WWII. I also visited the cemetery in Hawaii from WWII and Pearl Harbor, when I was about 13 years old.  These visits had a huge affect on me.  There are rows and rows of crosses that seem to go on forever. If you read the names of these young men who died you see one thing very clearly.  Most of these men were really children and from every religion and race, with English names, and German names, and Italian names, and Swedish, Finish, French, American Indian, and Asian, names.  There ages range from about 18 to maybe 28 years old.  Every once-in-a-while I would see a name on one of the crosses that said something like, “Jimmy (the old man) Smith” and do you know how old Jimmy was when this, “old man”, died?  He was 27.  The saddest thing I remember, while visiting the Lorraine American Cemetery in France, was something that I saw that was written in a guestbook that visitors would sign at the visiting center, writing their names and the date and state from which each guest was visiting.   There was a space to write something in the book right next to one’s name.   One woman wrote a note to her brother.  It was written in 1983.  I am paraphrasing, “ To my brother, Bob.  It took me a long time to get here but I finally made it.   I came to see you, Bob, at last.  Love, Your Sis”, I still cry every time I think of those few words.  Made me cry in 1983 and made me cry today.   This particular cemetery contains “10,489 American dead (the largest number of American Burials in Europe), and covers 113.5 acres.”  I looked this up today in Wikipedia.

All wars are terrible, all of them are confusing and all of them are about killing and injuring other human beings.  All of them revolve around death and winning and losing.  As far as WWII goes, we know that there wasn’t a choice.  There were several leaders whose main goal was to rule the world and kill any person who differed from this wish or any person who might question this goal.  It didn’t matter if this cost the lives of all of their people or not.  Most of the people who might be reading this probably had a father or uncle or yes, even sometimes a mother, who fought or joined up to help. They just didn’t help, these Americans gave their young lives, their time and sometimes their limbs and eyesight to save the world.

 I had a neighbor; he lived about four houses down from our house when I was in high school.  The neighbor was blind; he had several strong good looking Irish children.  Everyday one of his kids would walk with him to work. He had an Insurance company that was about a mile or so away.   As fate would have it, I went to the same college in Iowa for two years with one of his very nice and good looking sons.  We became friends.  Not until many years later did I find out that our neighbor (my friend’s father) was listed in a book about his war experience.  Our neighbor was blinded in WW II.  This man was one of the men listed in a book about  “The Greatest Generation” What did he do after the war? He stated in the book that he asked God to give find him a good wife.  What else would a good Irish Catholic man who had been blinded in the war do?  He found his wife and he started selling insurance.  Who would not trust a blind war veteran to sell them insurance?   He ended up with his own successful insurance company, with his good wife, and his very wonderful, good-looking children living in a big, beautiful, happy, home.

This isn’t a unique story. How wonderful were and are these people men and women of this generation?  They are and were incredible.

 My aunt Martha got a job in a plane factory.  She once told me that she had to take four busses at night to get to her job as a riveter.  She was one of the many women who worked in factories and shipyards during WWII and in her case, building planes.  She was one of the original “Rosie The Riveter’s”.  She was maybe five feet tall and she probably weighed about one hundred pounds or less.  Her husband was in Europe and she worked nights taking four busses, to get to her job. I know one more thing about my aunt; she was a perfectionist in everything she did, from work to cleaning a house. I am sure any plane she worked on was perfectly made.  Auntie was a marvelous woman.  Her husband was stationed in Europe throughout the war. Turns out he made some lady friends in Europe.  He asked my aunt to send him some gifts for his lady friends.  My aunt bought them and sent the gifts to him, with her blessings. Not only was Auntie hard working and tough and very pretty and very funny, she was, as it turns out, very open minded as well as generous with her hard earned money.  My aunt and uncle stayed married and devoted to each other until my aunt passed away in her 80’s.

Just think of all of the men who hit the beaches on D Day so long ago. Today I heard that there are about 500,000 veterans who are still alive, who fought in that war.  These men are all over 90 years old.  Just think of what they have seen in their long lives. Somehow they lived to over 90 years after having fought in one, or some, who probably fought in more than one war. What gave them the strength to keep on keeping on? I was watching the news this morning and looking at the beautiful, peaceful, beach in Normandy, the same beach where, so many men gave up their lives for us to live in freedom.  The same gorgeous beach that I walked along many years ago and the same beach while riding my bike as a carefree young woman in my 20’s enjoying the fabulous freedom I had and have, to live to my ripe old age of 67.

So what is our responsibility? Our responsibility is to live our lives to the fullest.  We must protect our freedoms, honor our vets, honor the greatest generation and honor our country.

Until Next Week…. 

At 5’2 ¼” I have got to say, I do not tower over most people.  Well, I actually don’t tower over anyone.  There isn’t much to like about being short.  I don’t sit on those tall chairs in bars or at counters because my feet don’t touch the bar where you are supposed to rest your feet.  My feet hang down all night long and I am uncomfortable. The tall chairs are too high for me to climb up on now that I am over 65.  At least it is hard to do it gracefully.  Years ago I had a boyfriend who would lift me up onto the tall chairs. This can look cute in your 20’s but not in your 60’s.  I can’t think of a man I know who could lift me onto a tall chair these days.  All the men I know are over 60, too.  God knows, I am not the little, skinny, girl I was at 28 either…. therefore, I just stay away from tall chairs. The other problem with being short is that most restaurants that have booths aren’t a good fit for me.  When I sit at a booth the tabletop often comes up to my neck. This makes it hard to cut my steak if and when I have the inclination to order a steak.  My arms and elbows stick up in the air.  I end up looking ridiculous.  The first minute or two when arriving at a new restaurant I scout out my surroundings and ask the host or hostess to please find me a table with chairs that are a normal distance from the ground.  After I am comfortably seated I am able to relax enough to order my dirty martini with three olives.

We, short people have new issues to address. I have noticed that young people keep getting taller and taller with each new generation.  Obviously architects have noticed this change in the new generation’s height as well. Each new kitchen I move into has cabinets that are way too high for me to reach anything beyond the first shelve.  When I moved into my present apartment I had a housekeeper help me to arrange most of the items that I need everyday on the first shelves above the counters.  The other items were placed on the second shelves and the items I only use at Thanksgiving or Christmas were placed on the higher shelves.  Then there is the problem of the towel racks in the bathroom. When did people decide to place a towel rack so high up next to the sink that one must stand up on one’s toes to dry one’s face?  To combat most of these issues I have bought small stepladders to accommodate my short stature.  This has also become an issue, as I have mentioned before in many past posts on my blog. I am very clumsy.  I don’t take notice of my surroundings, and well, in the last 5 months, I have fallen twice.  The first time I broke my nose and the last time I broke a toe and bruised my knees.  I try not to use the stepladders if I can avoid them.

There is good news however, my oldest son moved in with me after my first fall.  This didn’t happen because of my fall but due to the fact that the house he was renting with his father was sold.  My son moved in with the dog and the two cats.  Once again my life, tout seul, came to an end.  There are good and bad things about this happening. One, my son helps with everything. He takes the dog for walks and cleans the cat litter.   Two, he does a lot of the grocery shopping and most of the cooking.  Now if I need a bowl on the top shelf I call out to him and voila, I have the bowl that I needed from the top shelf.   I love see the animals waking and sleeping, wagging their tails.  When I walk into the apartment they are happy to see me but it has taken a heavy toll on my lovely new furniture.  The furniture no longer looks new.  It now looks like I need a whole new apartment filled with new furniture.  I have learned a lesson… you shouldn’t have three animals in a 1,300 sq. ft. apartment.   But I regress… we are talking about my small stature.

The one good thing about being short is the fact that there aren’t a lot of men who are my height or shorter.  Every new man I meet is usually taller than me.  I really don’t like to wear shoes with heels higher than two inches so, really, everyone is taller than me. I don’t have anything against short men.  I was madly in love with Dick Cavett when I was in college.  Even Dick is able to look down on me at his 5’6” height.  Let’s face it I like almost all men of any height.  I like intelligent, clever, men and thoughtful, kind, generous, men. That is what matters to me.  Once more, I regress …. I’m talking about height.

Now, here, is the very interesting thing about my short height.  NO ONE THINKS THAT I AM SHORT.  It’s true. If you ask anyone who knows me how tall I am they would probably answer 5’ 5” or taller.   I have an image of myself as being a tall person and it must have worked. The only time people notice that I am short is when we are walking down the street together. Then, usually, my friends will be walking very fast, with their much longer legs, and I am usually running beside them trying to keep up with them.  At this point, they usually look down at me and remark that they never noticed that I am so short.  I see myself as a tall, statuesque, woman, of some influence.  Don’t laugh.  I have seen this in my mind’s eye for so long that it might be coming true.

This post has the title, “Short and Sweet.”  Not so sure about the “Sweet”, part.    I guess you will have to make that judgment for yourselves. Maybe you have to know me for a while.  I do have my moments of sweetness, if you catch me on a good day.  Just ask my pets… but try not to scratch the furniture.

Until Next Week….  

You have heard it I am sure.   Just get back in the saddle.  Doesn’t everyone always tell you that?  Heck, (they say… whoever, they might be) it’s like riding a bike.  What? What is like riding a bike?  Personally … right now that I am over sixty and BTW, being my very clumsy self, I am not going to go outside these days to ride a bike.  I do have a stationary bike in my office that is staring at me right at this very minute. He, (yes,) I call it a he, because when I do manage to haul myself onto the bike… I ride him.  (Just to remind you that this blog is supposed to be about sex … so every once-in-a-while I must add some sexual imagery to keep your interest)  I have decided to call my bike Gerald.  I named him Gerald because I don’t think I know anyone that I can think of … by the name of Gerald.  Gerald just sits in my office and he glares at me while I am looking at Facebook. Gerald makes me very uncomfortable when I am checking my emails.  He shoots darts in my direction.  He hasn’t had me riding him for a long time. I can feel his fixed stare when I am doing my invoices and making my work schedules with my back to him.  I used to keep him in my bedroom.  I often hung damp clothes or towels on him to air dry. This made him so mad that one night while walking past him before going to bed he tripped me.  I fell over him and bruised my arm and leg and knee and, as is very normal for me, … I broke a toe.  Gerald will stop at nothing to get my attention.  So finally, after several months of doing my very best to ignore him I recently pushed him out from the sidewall and I am considering climbing on him once more.  He doesn’t know what happened to me in the last few months since we really weren’t talking.

 You see it started with a fall that I had in my bathroom and I broke my nose, then I had an incident where I went to the hospital… recovered from that and then something happened (sorry I can’t tell you about this one because my lawyers won’t let me) and I broke my foot and damaged my knee and I was in the hospital for 3 days and rehab 3 days.  I couldn’t walk for over three months and still walk with a limp.  I didn’t tell any of this to Gerald because you see he wouldn’t believe me anyway and he won’t care.   Who would???

A week and a half ago right before I decided I was well enough to get back in the saddle, my cat tripped me as I was carrying a second piece of lemon cake into the living room with a glass of milk.  It was Mother’s Day and I thought, just this once I could get away with having a second piece of cake.  Listen, I only have cake about four times a year.  I thought I was entitled to have a second piece of cake.  I fell, of course, over the cat, and bruised both knees and, yes, once again I broke a toe.  My belief is that Gerald had a conference with Cleaver, my cat and he told him to trip me so that I wouldn’t have that second piece of lemon cake. Well, his little sneaky trick worked.

 Today, about 11 days after this fall, my two feet feel well enough to push his pedals and move back and forth on top of Gerald.  We either listen to music during our workout or sometimes we listen to books … together we have enjoyed a very good mystery and a few very good self-help books.  Gerald is very fond of the late author Wayne Dyer.  He likes to listen to Frank Sinatra too.  While sitting on top of Gerald I usually take a book in each hand and slowly move my arms up and down.  He doesn’t mind as long as I keep riding him.  Since I have taken a very long brake from our daily workout I decided to take it slow. So we started out with a 20-minute tryst.  He didn’t seem to mind as long as I took it long and slow.  I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about him after such a long time ignoring him. I have got to admit it wasn’t how I remembered.  I became slightly bored but as I kept pushing through the boredom and as I kept up the momentum I started to get that old feeling back.  Here we are just Gerald and I, together, trying to make the most of our workout. As I started to slow down and then as we finally came to a stop, we just sat still for a moment taking it all in.  We are back together again.  I don’t think he minds that I put some grocery bags on him tonight.  I will try to work my way back to 45 minutes once a day five days a week.  It won’t be easy.  Not sure he is aware that I am over 60.  He doesn’t seem to care.  I am a little worried however, because he really doesn’t care who rides him. Gerald isn’t monogamous.  Any man or woman can ride him as long as they aren’t too heavy.  I have seen women and men glance at him while walking past my office.

Don’t tell Gerald but I just found out that I am supposed to switch out my workouts to get the most benefit.   There is a treadmill in the gym that has caught my eye and a few machines to strengthen my arms and legs.  They are starting to call out to me.  There isn’t anything as invigorating as trying out some new moves. There is a brand new treadmill in the gym. I have decided to call him Herbert.  I have heard that Herbert likes it when you walk all over him.  So don’t tell Gerald, I don’t want to upset him… he might try to trip me when I least expect it.  I better keep my eyes open when tiptoeing around my office at night. I’m sort of excited to try something new.  Hey, we all need a little variety, right?  I have spent most of my life as a one-stationary-bike woman, but that is all about to change.  I will try not to throw caution to the wind.  I’ll take it slow.  Maybe just three times a week starting out.  We will see.  You all know that I was talking about my new workout, Right???  What else could I be talking about anyway?

Until Next Week…

 Have you ever heard of a new word or an idea or a subject that you have never heard of before or maybe it is an idea that you never thought about before?  Somehow this word or idea sparks your interest and then, for some reason, you keep hearing this same word or idea over and over.  Is this a coincidence?  I don’t think so. When this happens I think the universe is trying to tell you something.  Stop, look and listen because this is something you should pay attention to; maybe for your own good?   This happened to me about a week or two ago.

First, I read an article in a magazine about a man who had retired at the age of 60.  He loved sailing and spent his free time on other people’s boats for most of his life.  When he retired he decided to build his own sailboat.  It took him several years to finish the boat to his satisfaction.  When it was finished he and his wife took off and sailed for the next ten years.  He is now 75 years old and he still loves sailing. When asked when he is going to stop living his passion he said that every five years he tells himself that he is going to give it five more years. It is his five-year plan.

Then, a day or so later I heard an interview on television with a very famous actor discussing the beginning of his career.  After the army and a college degree he got a job on the Broadway stage in a non-speaking part.  He moved to California and got small parts in television.  This actor told the interviewer that he gave himself five years to succeed as an actor.  He had a five-year plan.

At this point I started to notice something.

Next, I heard another very well know woman being interviewed.  This woman was known for her smile, her many talents, and her strong cheerful personality.  She had been married a few times first, to a man who cheated on her, then she married two more times to men who lost all of her money.  These next two husbands were both liars and cheaters. This didn’t stop her, she told the interviewer, “I gave myself five years to get over the loss and to rebuild my life and career.  After a loss, I have a five-year plan.  A five-year plan works for me,” she stated in a confident manner.

I won’t go into the two or three other instances in the last week where that same  “five-year plan” point became like a constant reminder that someone was trying to tell me something.  Okay, Okay, … I announced out loud to no one in particular.  So I guess I am supposed to wise up and force myself into making up a five-year plan.  So here goes.

MY FIVE-YEAR PLAN!  

One:In the next five years I would like to buy a condo, a townhome or a house that would be a place to settle into for a few years.  I am tired of moving and paying rent.

Two:I would like to put my posts from this blog into a book with some fun and interesting interviews from men and women over 60 as well as some fun facts.  I think this will be a lot of fun to put together.  This would be a fun way for me to earn some extra income for my advancing years; however, I am doing this primarily for my own amusement. Along with this possible book I have an idea for two films that will revolve around men and women over the age of 60.  I also, have an idea for a play.

Three: This is possibly going to be one of the hardest parts of my five-year plan.  I plan to force myself to commit to an activity that will require some sort of physical effort.  This is nothing that I have ever relished doing.  Off and on through the years I did manage to dedicate myself to five or six days a week for about an hour of swimming or biking or walking.  I am and I never have been a fanatic about working out.  I am pretty sure that I am not going to change in my 60’s, but, what is sixty or so minutes a day, out of one’s day, to keep blood flowing properly though one’s veins?

Four: I know, I know, this blog is about sex.  Have I given up on the idea?  What do you think?  NO, I HAVE NOT TOTALLY GIVEN UP ON THAT PARTICULAR EXERCISE.  What I would like to find in the next five years is a person with whom I might share my thoughts and hopes.  I would like someone who would call me just to chat.  I would like someone to worry if I arrived safely to my destination.  I want someone to look at me with love in his eyes.  I have decided he can be any age starting from 50 years old to 80.  Not sure you have noticed ladies, but there aren’t many single men out there as we age, so, I have given a 30-year age-span to help my odds a bit.

Five:  My last goal is to be alive, to be healthy and happy for five years, until I have to make another five-year plan.

Do you feel restless?  Is life a bit boring lately?  Did you stop having goals?  Consider making a five-year plan.  I did!  Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something too? 

Until Next Week…

There is no word for “sorry” in French.   In French, you say, “Je suis desole” (can’t figure out how to type the French accents) or Excusez-moi or “Pardonne-moi.”  Therefore, you either ask to be excused or to be pardoned or maybe, just maybe, (if you are French) you just might be desolate, but you aren’t sorry.  Being excused for something sounds pretty good to me.   Here is a scenario.  A policeman asks you if you are sorry for hitting your husband over the head with the iron frying pan that was sitting on your stove in preparation for cooking your husband’s dinner, just after you picked up your husband’s cell phone and found very compromising photos of your beloved with another woman?  If you are French you would say, “Pardonne-moi” or “Veuillez m’excuser” Pardon me, or, please excuse me, in English.  Yep, that is what I might tell the policeman too.   Now, what if the policeman asks you how you feel after you find out that your husband was taken to the hospital due to the fact that you hit him with your favorite iron frying pan and that your husband had been diagnosed with a slight concussion?  Well of course, any caring wife would answer, “Je suis desole” or, in English, “I’m desolate.”  Does that sound a bit sarcastic to you?  Of course it sounds sarcastic, because, it is sarcastic. That is the point.  Desolate really?  Is anyone ever desolate?  It is a sarcastic retort.  Now, would you call someone who would hit her husband over the head with her favorite iron frying pan without even letting her husband explain the naked pictures of him with another woman on his phone as being too dramatic?  NO!  Neither would I.

Have I done this in real life? No, I have not.  Have I thought about it?  Sure. Now, tell me this.  Does this make me too dramatic?  Maybe.   I have never been accused of being too boring.  Interesting, yes, pushy??? At times, yes, I guess. Colorless, no. Dull, no.  Humdrum, no. Drab, no. Stale, no.  Spiritless, no. Vapid, no. Irksome, yes.  Wearisome, yes. Uncommunicative, no. Tiresome, yes, sometimes.   A pain in the a_ _ , yes, and even to my face and surely lots of times behind my back.  The one name I have been called more than once and often by men, (yes, even in the last few days) is, “Dramatic” I have heard “You are too dramatic for me”, and I have heard, “At this point, I am not looking for anything dramatic in my life.”

Now, men, let me tell you what I am looking for in a relationship.  Drama, sure, I certainly have had my share of boring, and dull and drab in the last few years.  Drama sounds pretty good to me.  What else do I WANT?  I want someone to ask me, what I want!  I want someone to ask me what I am looking for, in my future.  It isn’t a humdrum existence.  Excitement, Golly Gee, YES!  FUN, YES.  Earth shattering momentum in a new relationship?  WHY EVERNOT?  Historic relationship?  Monumental, significant, days and nights.  Absolutely!   Do I want to be around impressive, outstanding, remarkable, exceptional people doing and saying and living their lives in their own outstanding, remarkable, way? YES! YES! & YES!

Telling me not to be dramatic is useless.   Every one of my old and new friends and family members are quite aware of this personality trait of mine.  I have had this particular trait since birth.  I am afraid that this will probably die with me.  As a child, I wanted to be a Broadway star, or a movie star, until I was in college and acting on stage.  That is when I realized that I only enjoyed bowing at the end of the performance.  What I really liked about the theater and movies was, and is, the writing and the directing and producing behind the performance.  What I liked was the art of the entertainment.  What I liked was the story, or the DRAMA. The drama of life makes you know that you are alive.

I know that lots of men and women over sixty just want to be calm and they want their rest and uncomplicated relationships.  Lots of seniors are looking for  nice, happy, slightly enjoyable friends and an uncomplicated retirement with occasional visits to see the grandchildren. I totally understand this after so many years of hard work.  It makes a lot of sense.  This actually makes good sense.  It’s just not me.  Can’t help it.  I’m different.  I have been living my life for a “was-band” and for two children, all of whom,  have never relished any form of drama.

 Now it is my turn. Drama is in my soul.  Everyone knows it and I have had to keep it in check for way too long … well, I am not going to do that anymore.  I made it to over 65 and my sprit isn’t going to be lassoed. There is another thing, like drama, and it is called, passion.  Yes, I am passionate.  I am a passionate person.  I am passionately interested in many things and I am passionately fond of my family and friends.  If in a serious relationship, I am passionately involved.  I can be seriously hurt and seriously affected by things you do or don’t do or things that you say to me.  Can’t help it..  I actually have had a man or two or three, in my life, who somehow managed to fall in love with that part of me.  Thank you, fellows for liking me for who I am.

This, “Drama Queen” is comfortable with her title.  I accept the title and will wear the crown with distinction.  Are there any men out there from 57 to 77 who are interested in passion and maybe a little drama?  We will see.  Can’t say I’m sorry about my dramatic condition, however, I will say, “Excusez-moi”

Until Next Week… Continue reading →

My father was (for most of his life) a very happy, optimistic fellow.  He was generally a happy man, happy, but realistic.   As a young man he was given a Bible, probably after being confirmed as a member of his church.  On the first page of the Bible he wrote, “When you are born, you’re done for it.”  Whenever life gave any of his children a kick in the fanny, my dad would remind us of his childhood forewarning.  Dad, you were right.  Most of us know this by now.  If you are sixty or over, let’s say we have all been though and seen a great deal of life. We have been made aware of the inevitable.  As years go by the inevitable goes from being somewhere way far off in the distance, to maybe being right around the corner or just over the hill or maybe right down the block…. but it is there.  The end is unfortunately within shouting distance.

 There is a lot that is really good after birth, there is also a lot of bad.  We have all been there.  We have seen, been witness to, our own and other’s pain, happiness, joy, fun, laughter, sadness, and misery.  Oh, I forgot, illness, death, worry, love, friendship, births, deaths, mourning, weddings, and how could I miss this…. sex, there is always, sex.   One of the more difficult connections with sex is that two people have to get to know each other unless you are just paying for it; in which case, the whole experience just needs to be a financial transaction.  This getting to know each other stuff, is, and always has been, a tricky and sometimes a risky business.  In days of yore, humans often met in school, or places of worship, or at work and occasionally through family or friends.  If there was an attraction you probably would go on dates for a reasonable period of time to see if you were compatible or not?   When you are young it isn’t easy but you are young, so you jump in and you take that big leap.  Youth seems endless.  Risk? What do you risk?  When you are young there is no end in sight.  We meet, we like each other, we date, fall in love, sure, sex, sure, why not?  What do you have to lose?  Heartbreak, sure, it happens, but there is always the other girl that you met at work or that other boy you met at the dance.  Is it a risk, sure, you might be disappointed, or you might fall in love again. You might have your heart-broken again. The only difference with this very familiar routine is that when you are young there is time.  There is always another person; there are always lots more time.

When you reach 60 or above, our time grows shorter. Risks get harder to take.  We get more careful.  We have seen life and we know what happens to people who risk too much. They get burned.  All you have to do is fall down a few times and trip over that rug in the bathroom and oops, you end up in the hospital with a broken nose. Look straight ahead and boom an accident and there you go in the hospital again.  So of course, when you used to run up stairs two at a time maybe you now hold on to the railing because you see what happens to someone when they miss a step.

So of course, why are we surprised when after the age of 60 if you enter into a friendship with a man or a woman who sparks your interest, why would we jump in?  Why would we take a big leap?  Why would we want to take what might be a big risk?  We have seen what life and love and death and illness does to people. Maybe we have even been there and done that.  Maybe our hearts have been broken.  Maybe we want to look for something or someone who is easy to handle or not too serious.  Maybe it is better to forget the whole thing then to take that risk.  Maybe leaping and risking is only for the young.

I know many men and women who feel that maybe, just maybe, it is time to call it a day.  Maybe it is not worth it: to go through all of the feelings, and emotions and possible heartache again.  Maybe sex and or possible love, isn’t worth all of the mess and trouble anymore.  Have I felt this way?  Sure I have.  Do I want to be possibly sad again?  Do I want to be misunderstood and misunderstand and to argue and worry and feel jealous again?  Do I want to be in a complicated relationship with someone else in my 60’s?  Am I too tired?  What about family issues? Adult children and grandchildren and or ex-husbands or ex-wives and their problems are also new problems to be faced.  Are men and women over 60 too set in their ways to change even slightly for another person?  Maybe, over 60 means never being able to change your habits enough to let someone new into your life.  When you let another person in to your life it does get messy.  You might have to make changes and adjustments.  Is that possible over 60?  You might have to be responsible for someone else.  After a lifetime of being responsible for everyone else is one more person worth it?

Here is the last part and the hardest part. You just might end up caring for this new person and you might end of caring too much.  There is something that men and women know (who have lived to and beyond their 60^thbirthday) of which young people are blissfully unaware. The person you might be interested in or have fallen in love with, is going to die.  We know that now.  They could be ill for a while and then die or they could just drop dead when you aren’t looking or when you are at your very, very, happiest in your new romantic relationship.

Therefore, men and women over 60 and single are you considering taking a risk at your age… are you going to take that leap and take that risk?  Is it worth the risk?  I think so, but I’m not sure? Are you?

Until Next Week…

When I was in my 20’s and living on my far South side neighborhood about an hour away from the big city, I had a large group of friends, both men and women friends who all lived downtown.  We often went on outings and parties and socializing as a group.  We all would add some of our own friends to the group, which was fun and an interesting mix of people both young and middle-aged.  I look back on these years before my marriage at 30, to be very, very, happy times.  These were the days when one only had to worry about what to wear to the next party, or sailing party, or pool party.  We would worry about who would be arriving and if you were dating someone or looking for someone else to meet and date in the future.  I see myself as carefree, single and a gloriously selfish girl.  One of the main characters of our group was a funny, interesting and often hard to pin down personality.  She whisked into and out of parties as well as whisking in and out of people’s lives.   She invited me into her large, large, group of friends as a very kind gesture to me because her parents were good friends of my parents.  My father and mother split up for good the same week I arrived back home from college in Europe with my new B.A. degree in World History and English Literature held in my hand.   My mother and my little sister were devastated by my father’s departure.  I knew almost immediately that my father had planned to leave our home and coordinated it with my return.  I am sure he believed that I would be responsible for my mother and my little sister’s well being.  Thank heavens, for this friend, whom I will call,  Jenny (not her real name) who opened up her friendship to me at a very difficult time in my life.  Jenny was tall, and slim, and pretty, with a big smile and a very big heart.  Her one failing and it really wasn’t a failing but really like everything else about her, this slight failing, was charming, Jenny liked to gossip.  She liked to tell people what she had learned while talking to or questioning friends and well yes, maybe things she learned by snooping.  It was always good-natured gossip that wasn’t in any way to hurt anyone.

Over a few glasses of wine one night at Jenny’s apartment she announced that she had some very interesting gossip.  She looked directly at me.  There was a man in our group that we all liked very much.  He was nice and nice looking and if I remember correctly, I believe he was an up and coming banker and maybe a lawyer too? I knew him and liked him however, that is all.  I hadn’t considered him as a possible boyfriend.  I just enjoyed talking to him casually at parties.   My friend visited this young man’s apartment for a date maybe?? I honestly don’t know?  She saw that he had a black leather personal address book on his desk.  Jenny felt it was her duty to, at the very least, take a casual look inside to see what she could see… so to speak.  She opened the book, and noticed my name and address and phone number listed with a star next to it. Right next to my name in this man’s date book were a few words, “Pretty girl, nice, good personality, Geographically Undesirable.”   Jenny looked deeply into my eyes to witness my expression.  I realized at once that this fellow had chosen the right profession. Everything he said was pretty true at the time.  I lived an hour or more away from his apartment. I thought then and still think that his description of me was quite amusing as well as hitting the nail on the head.  This was a very practical man.  He wasn’t going to get into a relationship that would be wasting hours of time driving back and forth or having to spend long periods of his time on the phone setting up dates and or meeting places.  This guy thought I was cute and nice but clearly not worth the time or the drive.  This did, right then, and has still, made me aware of what is important to me and to other people when considering a relationship.

Funny, however, the first serious relationship that appeared not long after the “Geographically Undesirable” incident, I met a man who lived an hour or more away from me.  How, interesting that this man didn’t find distance to be a problem. This man, I will call him Jim, was several years older than me and he delighted in visiting me in my family’s home.  He often picked me up and drove over an hour away to take me out.  He would make me dinner or take me to a big city restaurant and drive me all the way back to my house far away on the South side.  Then he would drive back to his own apartment.  Why would he do this for over a year until I moved myself to an apartment downtown on my own?  To him I was worth the time and expense.

Later, still in my 20’s I met a man thought mutual friends.  He arrived with a male friend or two and I often arrived with a friend or two of mine. We were both immediately attracted to each other.  I fell for him instantly. He came alone and left with men friends.  Once and only once I met him on the street he was actually with a beautiful actress on a date, she wasn’t famous then, now she is. I was also on a date that night.  We exchanged hellos and later goodbyes. Something hurt in my stomach.  I realized that I was with the wrong man and this man who I really liked, was on a date with the actress and not with me.  We kept meeting at parties and talking.  I thought that he was interested in me.  I had a dinner party and called him at work to invite him to my party.  He had given me his phone number at work.   The dinner party was lots of fun and this man that I liked so much, stayed later than everyone else.  When he was leaving he grabbed me and kissed me.  I have to say that this kiss wasn’t like any kiss that I had ever had, before in my life.  We fell on the floor and he continued to kiss me.  Then, suddenly he jumped up and helped me up and he apologized he thanked me for the dinner and left.  I was very puzzled by his abrupt parting.  A few weeks later he asked me out.  We went to an outdoor concert.  He brought the food.   I brought the Champagne.  Later I learned why he hadn’t asked me out earlier.  He was going through a divorce.  He told me that he knew that I wouldn’t go out with a married man.  He only asked me out after he was free.  In other words, he thought that I was special.  I was worth it.  I was desirable.

BTW I met my “was-band” in Monaco.   When I returned home to the U.S. A., after our first  meeting, (my “was-band” who was, and still is, French and at the time of our meeting, he lived in France) he sent me flowers, called me, wrote me, sent me gifts and flew from France to see me several times.   I visited him in France too.  We got married a year and a half after we met.  We are still married but separated.  We are friends.  Okay, it’s because I am a saint.  I’ve said that before but it is true.  However, distance was not a problem for my husband.  I think even if you met him today … I believe he would say that I was worth it. I was worth the geographic distant.  So much for being “Geographically Undesirable.”  If you care, you care… geography has nothing to do with real passion.  Got to say however, I still think that the phrase “Geographically Undesirable” is still, really, really, funny!

Until Next Week…