Dear old, fat, bald guy:
It’s amazing to me that you judge older women on the basis of their appearance when you look as you do. But that’s not really what this letter is about.
We met three years ago. You are nine years older than me, and I didn’t think the age difference was too great at the time. I did, however, think that I looked a lot younger for my age than you did. I never told you that several people referred to you as my father when you left the room. However, you were able to keep up with me, and pursued me so vehemently when we met, it was hard not to be flattered.
That first year was filled with gifts, mushy notes, trips, flowers and romantic dinners. You won me over. Your objective was to get me to sell everything I owned, leave my friends, job and family, and move into an active retirement community with you. After several visits to this place I thought it might be nice too. But I’m not the type to just go live with someone. I needed a commitment, which you told me you would give me. At least that’s what I thought you meant when you said, “I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
I needed protection because, as it turns out, you aren’t in the best of health. You did put a ring on my finger, but you had no intention of doing anything more. I only found this out when I pinned you down on the specifics of our “arrangement.” This was after my house went on the market.
Once you had me gone were the flowers, trips, mushy cards and romantic dinners. The most I got from your travels was to drop you off and pick you (and your buddies) up from the airport. Fancy dinners were always with others that you needed to impress. You had double knee replacements, and I took care of you after those. I helped you get your house ready for sale. I cooked, hosted your parties, waited on you, and basically functioned as a wife, minus the marriage certificate. Oh, and don’t think I didn’t catch the hints to clean your houses.
On several occasions, mostly when I came back from being with my girlfriends, I found you home drunk. During these times the “real you” came out. You complained that I had gained weight, that I was lazy, and that I didn’t try hard enough to impress your friends. Of course, you never remembered any of this the next morning. How convenient, and how hypocritical. You fat, drunk bastard.
So, as you were getting ready to make your permanent move to the retirement house, we had “the talk.” That’s when I found out that my protection would be my own money, from the sale of my house. That you didn’t want me to work, and that your didn’t want me to come home as often as I would have liked (I have elderly parents). You wanted me to be available to socialize, clean your house and take care of you when you had your back surgery, which apparently was imminent. Suddenly I saw what my life would be like, and it looked a little like prison.
I told you to pack your things, and I would drive you wherever. In hind-site I should have made you take an Uber.
To all the single older ladies, watch out for the 60+ man. They’re falling apart and looking primarily for a nurse with a purse. Oh, and there’s one last kick in the teeth – they expect you to stay healthy, trim and toned. And guess what? That little blue pill they have to take to get anything going in the bedroom, stops working after a while.
I feel like I dodged a bullet. I still have my job, family and friends. I’m taking my house off the market, and I have a man my own age (that doesn’t need the blue pill) in my life now.