There is perhaps nothing less valued in our appearance-conscious society than women of a certain age. Once gravity takes its inevitable toll and your former stargazing accoutrements start heading toward the vicinity your navel, well, honeychile, it might as well be all over.
At the time of our lives when we have gained the experience and wisdom to be truly worthy companions to our spouses (spice?) or significant others, the men in our lives (speaking heterosexually, but not trying to be discriminatory), suddenly develop what I call "Red Sports Car Syndrome," buy a Cobra, and start trolling for blondes half, or even a third, their ages.
Join me for the muddled meanderings of a crazed, but charming, old woman as she explores her musings on the subject. And, if you happen to fit into the category of which I am speaking, I invite you to join the BOW WOW Club.
My sister and fellow Kossack, dkistner, and I wore our Bow Wow shirts to a peace rally several years ago, and they were quite a hit. Our "Peace Ladies," constructed from Target bags, swimming noodles, and balloons also generated major mojo. I sold the Peace shirts right off the backs of the Peace Ladies, and a good time was had by all. Of course, Diane and I did not know that our rainbow head garlands were code for "we're gay," until we ran into my lesbian neighbors, Lisa and Susan, who, having not met Diane yet, assumed that she was my partner. There was much hilarity when I introduced her as my sister. We all still laugh about it to this day.
Oops, I got totally sidetracked, as batty old wimmens are wont to do. Where was I? Yes, Red Sports Car Syndrome and the dilemma of the older woman who has devoted years of her life to a man, only to have him trade her in for a younger model. And, when I say "younger," the age difference can be as much as 40 years. Neveryoumind that the sweet young thing can't carry on a conversation above the level of a tapeworm, he thinks that she is really interested in HIM and not the security he can provide, i.e. MONEY. I call young women of this persuasion, "Geezster Bunnies."
And, my advice to these precious young things is to be upfront with it:
If you're a hot young thing that's into much older men for the security they can provide...well just be right up front with it in this shirt. Why beat around the bush so to speak. Just put it out there and see what bites.
Lest you see me as some sort of bitter old woman, let me assure you that if these darling children can put up with the nose and ear hair, their prize catch's interminable ruminating on his salad days, the stories of events that happened years before they were even born, the smelly farts, the wizened pectorals, the bottle of Viagra on the nightstand, etc., then they are more than welcome to him. Jeesh!
I just sometimes wish that I could happen upon some hot young stud who would allow me to act out some of my Harold and Maude fantasies. Mind you, there is nothing wrong with "living better electrically," but to quote an old song...ain't nothing like the real thing baby.
Especially in the hugging, kissing, holding and being held department. As much as I appreciate the creativity of those who created the science of Dildonics, not to mention the array of really festive products out there, one of these devices cannot carry on a post-coital conversion about the nature of God, Reality, and the Universe. Nor can they make a trip to the fridge and bring you back a bagel with lox and cream cheese.
And for you men who have the good sense to be in relationships with women who are remotely close to being your own age, GOOD ON YOU!
I leave you with this parting thought: