There’s no denying she’s in her fifties. Maybe early, maybe late, but the lines are there. She’s kept her figure, tall and slim and her legs still pass muster below a certain hemline. Even when she was younger, and was very attractive, she still kept her legs in the Hint Of Things To Come category as opposed to wearing a belt as mini-skirt. She wears glasses now, which she prefers to contacts, and keeps her long brown hair in a ponytail. In her stewardess uniform she has an effect on men, and she knows it.
What her body loses with age she recognises she has gained with life experience. The ability to lock eyes with a younger man, perhaps one of her passengers, forcing him to break eye contact and more often than not blush, that always makes her smile.
Since her divorce, her last three lovers have been younger than her. Lovers, not boyfriends, she hasn’t time for that, the only man in her life being her twenty two year old son in college. Nor is she really interested in men her own age, with their jowls, bulging stomachs and insecurities.
There was the very handsome, almost rugged photojournalist in his late thirties who sat opposite her on the flight from Hong Kong. She’d pretend not to see his eyes running over her for most of the flight, but then watched him, never breaking her look. An hour before landing he was stuttering in the galley giving her his mobile number.
Her most recent was her son’s best friend, who called over to borrow something while her son was away travelling in South America. She had consumed a few glasses of wine, and had always had a soft spot for the beautiful young rugby player. She’d known that he’d always fancied her, an ongoing joke amongst her son’s circle of friends which she’d found flattering.
He’d stayed, taken her offer of wine and let her make him some supper. They’d then watched a DVD, and she had undressed him completely and taken him to her bed. They’d been lovers for three months, him calling around or both taking a weekend away. He’d fallen hopelessly in love with her, and had sobbed uncontrollably as she had broken up with him as college returned. He’d even pleaded with her to marry him, which she could have laughed at cruelly but didn’t, cradling his head in her chest and running her fingers through his hair, in that moment more caring mother than sexual partner. It was for the best, she wanted him to go back to college and live the life of a handsome young man.
She would, with her son, attend his wedding six years later, where he would with a simple glance from the wedding table thank her silently. Her eyes were always her best feature, she thought.
1. Your friends admit that they’ve stopped learning your boyfriend/girlfriends’ names because they won’t be around long.
2. You start going to movies on your own, and surprise yourself by actually enjoying it.
3. You have one of those slipping getting out of the shower and thinking This Is How I’ll Be Found moments.
4. You don’t do a Big Shop but buy stuff as you need it.
5. You regard the words bachelor and spinster as both archaic and offensive, and secretly meaning “closet homosexual” and “on the shelf”.
6. Life insurance is something other people buy.
7. You really have your home the way you want it.
8. You start dressing primarily for comfort.
9. You either start talking to yourself, or buy a cat to pretend to talk to but keep asking him questions about you.
10. You start either writing a blog or recounting great details of your life on Facebook.
Posted by Jason O on Dec 2, 2014 in An Occasional Guide to Modern Life
There are those who love “the chase”, the pursuit and coy-eyes-across-a-room at a new lover. Indeed, some of them love the chase more than the actual relationship itself, getting bored after the initial high and finding themselves distracted by challenges new. There’s a many a book, movie and TV series about those people and their adventures. Many feature Sarah Jessica Parker.
Then there’s that lesser hailed creature: the person who wished they could just have their new partner arrive fully formed on their doorstep, and immediately launch into a life of box sets and Friday nights eating Marks & Spencer and maybe a browse in Avoca in Kilmacanogue for lunch on a bank holiday Sunday. Yes, they want an attractive partner and the sex but primarily they’re fed up with the stress of dating and Tinder. And your friends assuming that “Well, you’re single and have a pulse, and he’s single and has a pulse” so you’re both compatible. As he clears a six day old pizza box from his coffee table, or she recounts a detailed list of The Things She Won’t Put Up With.
Then there’s The Thing. The fact that someone is still single in their forties and hasn’t been married. For women it’s easier: they’ve just been working their way through Dublin’s Male Arsehole Carousel. And by arsehole, we mean not lacking Clooneyesque qualities but actually unpleasant at best and “Tonight, on Criminal Minds!” at worst. For men it’s the Something Wrong thing, that he must be gay or weird or “confirmed bachelor” which could be either of the former or “I’m caring for Mother”.
Ideally, some form of profiling and pre-vetting would suit. I mean, the FBI can work out who’s a serial killer. Why can’t they say “You should date her, and you him. You both love 1960s spy movies and share a predilection for spanking.” Is that so much to ask for?
Posted by Jason O on Jun 13, 2014 in An Occasional Guide to Modern Life
She got a shock when she stumbled across the news on Facebook. Just a string of random comments and offers of sympathy to his family from friends, some of whom she had known. She was surprised at her own reaction. It had been years, and many relationships ago, and to be honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she had given him a thought. Yet today the memories were strong. The relationship had petered out, two people who hadn’t fought or cheated or disagreed, but just concluded that it was going nowhere. They’d kept in touch for a little while, sent the odd birthday text, just moved away from each other. Now, she’d never bump into him again, see him across a street, maybe even pretend not to see him, none of that would ever happen.
There was a moment when he really mattered to her, a torn strip in her life where he just might have been someone very important to her, or had the potential to be. He’d not been perfect, and was just a little too self obsessed for her liking, but he’d been kind too, and he had always made her laugh. They’d had their own in-jokes, their own words and phrases that meant something just to them. At night, in bed together, she had felt safe, and when she felt cold she knew she could just move close and snuggle against him and his arms would come around her and keep her warm. They’d joked about just how warm he was in bed, a human hot water bottle, she’d said. Now, that heat was gone forever.
Posted by Jason O on Oct 27, 2013 in An Occasional Guide to Modern Life
It’s not as much a single moment as a gradual acceptance. She’s known relationships and love and happiness in them, but that is the past. The men she loved were good men, and she seemed to have avoided the monsters other women had met, but still, it was not to be.
Now, occasionally, on a street or through a friend on Facebook, she’ll see them, with their new lovers, wives, children. She is now just a discarded fragment of someone else’s life, a crumpled paper ball of an relationship that might once have had merit, might have grown into something beautiful, but is now abandoned, perhaps even the source of rolled eyes and “what was I thinking?”
For her, it’s not unhappiness, per se. Loneliness comes, in waves, but the funny thing about loneliness is that it’s a known quantity. It can be managed, and distracted, and tricked by other pursuits, hobbies, sports, reading, friends. Never quite extinguished, especially not in bed, where she sleeps against a pillow if only to feel it against her, reflecting her own heat back, something against her, in the night.
Places hurt. She can never return to the Place de la Concorde because that was where he held her on a cold winter’s night, a thousand tiny white lights around them, and for a moment she had everything she wanted. Now the Place would just be a reminder that her most cherished memory was merely the high point on a slope to pain and tears.
Same with words. She’ll hear a word, an inflection, and it’ll remind her of him and what’s gone.
And yet, she’ll manage, and carry on, and find that curious settlement that comes from accepting where one is and where one is going. She doesn’t worry as much about fitting into that dress or whether she should have that biscuit, and the liberation is tangible.
It feels like a section of her life has finally been neatly parcelled away and stored carefully on a top shelf. Not thrown away, not obliterated forever, just put away.
Perhaps it will be opened again one day. But, as she gets older, she recognises, perhaps not.