Sunday, October 30, 2005

THE AGING BACHELOR'S LIFE

Every time I go to bed with that cute redhead of sixty-three to demonstrate my virility and my ability to rise to every possibility with the agility of my yesteryears I have a propensity to dwell on the immensity of my potency and sleek physique. What I fail to recognize is my heart and eyes are weak, my bladder's sprung a leak, my back gets out of whack each time I tax my sacroiliac.

When I take a chance to demonstrate my prowess at romance voices in my brain complain I'm putting too much strain on my ability to fend off senility which is slowly taking hold of me. "Act your age," the voices rage as I tear a page from my past when I used to last from dusk till dawn.

Although I know it's true I'm through or nearly so, I can't admit it's time to go. The mirror says I'm old. The calendar reinforces that. When did I cease to be a he-man man and become an also ran? When did my muscle turn to flab and I began to gab and blab and grab at straws to prove I could still get it on? When did I become an ex-Don Juan?

We Oldsters have a tendency to deny, to lie, to even cry when no one can see us letting go of our masculinity. It's a false belief our grief is brief, but we'll pay any cost to replace the love we've lost. We'll wine and dine a younger woman to ease the pain, to clear the cobwebs from our brain. But no matter who we embrace to replace our mate, when we go home late and walk into those empty rooms, the gloom looms, won't set us free.

My condo's in disarray. Clothes, laundry scattered everywhere. Dirty dishes in the sink. I think I'll clean it up next week. Or maybe wait and let my date who hates to see the mess do the job for me, the slob. Eventually she'll become the maid and cook and more, just what most widowed men are looking for. But what can she do? She's lonely, hurting too. So we both accept second best. You know the rest.

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