Dating When You’re over Forty and Want “Some”

I am in my forties and recently found myself involved with a guy who is also in his forties. It’s been about five months now and it seems that, according to my friends, he is now my “boyfriend” and things are getting serious.

For starters, uttering the phrase, “he’s my boyfriend”, I instantly feel like I’ve turned into one of those creepy women who tries desperately to act like they’re in their twenties by learning all the lyrics to every PitBull song and fist pumping people in her exercise classes. It’s not right. For a while now I’ve referred to him as, “this guy I’m fucking” but apparently that doesn’t go over well with some people such as the teller at my local bank or a woman I interviewed with in the hope she would sign on as a client of mine.

Secondly, I wouldn’t call this relationship “serious” by any means but apparently I’m wrong. As an example, my friend cited the fact that he and I recently spent an entire evening sitting on my couch, watching TV aaannnd that’s it. No sex before, during or after. I was told this means we’ve moved to the stage where we don’t “need” to have sex, that we both trust that we will have many chances to do so in the future and therefore there is no longer that rush to get “some” “just in case.” Now, if you don’t know what I mean when I say “just in case” picture, if you will, a time in your life a when you were utterly starving. Now, add 1200 more starving days to that day. Then then sit back and listen to people who can eat any day or time they want, tell you that they know how you feel but that you should be happy anyway, that eating is totally overrated, that sometimes they don’t even want to eat and, yeah, exactly.

My friend then went on to cite all the positives about being in a committed relationship none of which I recall with the exception of the possibility of free babysitting and coming home and finding that he took it upon himself to go to the store to replenish my kid’s dwindling supply of low-sodium turkey. Now, tempting as it might be to avoid having to stand in the grocery store wishing someone dead because they had the nerve to order more than three items during peak deli hours, I have a tough time with the idea of going back to “that” life. I know neither situation is ideal, but for now I prefer the “not ideal” situation where if I tell this person to leave, it doesn’t entitle him to take half my furniture.   Maybe I’ll change, maybe I won’t. As long as I don’t go “hungry”, I’ll be fine.

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