Dating a much younger man engaged internet dating
I replied with a comeback that barely makes sense now.“Rude. He strode off at double the pace and disappeared, leaving me alone in a Hooverville along Seventeenth Street.I called and I texted and I spiraled until he blocked me — even on Facebook.I’d been sure that this guy was SO incredibly fucked up, that I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I fessed up to wishing bitterly for ethical partnership and creative success and a different president.What I neglected to see was that I identified with him. As a sorrowful figure who woke up into a mess with no clear solution, my drifting midlife crisis yoked well with his whole-life crisis. ”I realized that I was sloshing around in too much resentment. Then I decided to accept that my desires could remain like a thousand-piece puzzle still in the box, unassembled.Maybe I wanted to be the self-centered asshole in a relationship.Either way, I behaved like a cranky senior who didn’t get any visitors except this one junior orderly. We lived in the most expensive city in America; carrying us both made me feel superior.“Babe,” he once called to ask, “is it OK if I go out tonight with my coworkers? And be here in the morning.”When he showed up at my house — still bleary from tequila shots, explaining that he had lost his cell phone at a bar and blacked out — I launched into a matronly reprimand about his bad choices and how he couldn’t afford to replace his phone with the child support he owed.“And don’t think I’m going to buy you a phone and reward your dumb behavior.”He glared at me, quivering like that kid from Stanley Kubrick’s , and said, “I’m sorry. “It’s this Hollywood classic where a faded actress keeps a younger man. He bowed out the door peacefully, and I chased him barefoot down Fillmore Street, feeling mean-spirited and craven.We were at a bar in the Mission District (the shantytown part of the hood where people pitch tents on the sidewalk) and I was perched contentedly in his lap when a drunken woman paused her winning streak at the pool table, telling us, “I want what you have, guys.” And to him, “You treat this woman right; she’s beautiful.”He ignored the flattery and after a few minutes turned to me, saying, “The only time you’ve said you loved me was the time I tried to break up with you.” I gave a tight smile and continued our pose as the enviable couple.
After that breakup, I vowed to never make a submissive deal for love again.I crabbed at him all the time.“Your pits stink like an alley during a garbage strike,” I said, presenting him with a tube of Kiehl’s deodorant that seems medical-grade because it’s sold by people in white lab coats. I’ll go straight to the bar when it opens and see if it’s there.”He gave me a beaten-animal look as I shut the door. With his funky armpits, youthful mistakes, and boring retellings of ’90s Disney movies, I was reminded of how mismatched we were. Then she kills him.”***That fall, as I was leaving for a trip, he said he couldn’t cat-sit for me as planned. He turned around and listened wearily as I made a pessimistic gesture about my future, saying I wanted another chance.“You look like in that billowy shirt,” I said, leading him through the mall to remake him in some better clothes. I also said something I didn’t mean about love.“OK, babe. But I’d have to face our relationship’s inequality soon enough.The forces of solitude were crushing me when the damp-sky summer began.I was haunting a corner market designed to look like a Gold Rush general store, buying the cheapest bottle of Pinot Noir and a sushi platter for one, when out of nowhere the bearded guy working the register asked me to dinner.
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I had started my 40s dating a 50-something white dad — that romance was so unequal, it was an endless episode of “White Boyfriend Knows Best,” and it upheld white-male privilege and the patriarchy at a time when Donald Trump was running on the exact same ticket.