Love at Eventide

A very dear friend phoned me yesterday. She sounded energized, happy; very. This is not her typical state. Her biography would make Frances Farmer's read like a "Happy Days" episode. Consequently, her health has been majorly impaired (she weighs maybe 80 pounds after dinner); and suffers expectedly from paranoia and depression. With all of this, she can still be funny, and bright, and orders champagne at New York's rough-edged Irish bars. We won't go into all of the causes. Suffice it to say, she's been unable to live in her condominium for nine years. And, finally, resolving the issues of this exile, she fortunately was referred to a contractor who is good at his work, fair in his price, and values my friend as a client. He is, she tells me, in his late 30's -- maybe 40 -- European, charming, and extremely solicitous. He drove her around the outer regions of New York City to choose kitchen cabinets, etc., and then took her to lunch on City Island. My friend had a lovely day. Then she couldn't reach him for a few days and, fearing a repeat of past experiences with lawyers, doctors, contractors, etc., my friend sat in her apartment and wept.
Then she told me that he did call, very apologetic; there'd been a death in the family. My friend suddenly heard herself say, "I love you." She told me she meant to say I love you for being so kind and for doing such exquisite work. "Did you qualify what you said?" I asked her. "No," she replied. "I just paused. I couldn't believe I'd said that. Then he said, I love you, too." "Ahhhh," I said. "That's so sweet. Friendship is the best kind of love, you know." (reference C.S. Lewis) "Yes, of course, but there's no reason there can't be romantic love, even sexual love between a younger man and an older woman," she said. "After all, he is a European." Ah-ha, I said. My friend is 70.

I've been thinking about this. There was, after all, Harold and Maude. There was also--more aptly-- Ladies in Lavender. Have you seen that movie? Judy Dench would break your heart as Ursula. The outcome breaks poor Ursula's heart. The list goes on: The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone; etc. etc. I wrote one myself, a film called The Woman's Voice, which has a happy ending. But this isn't cinema, and it isn't celebrity. Societal pressures still exist when older women and younger men pair up. I don't believe it's wrong. By what standard, whose judgment could make it "wrong?" My concern is: is it possible? A woman of 40 with a mate of 30. Okay. A woman of 50 with a mate of 35. Okay. A woman of 70 with a mate of 40? And the woman isn't rich? Who is this guy? Well, if 60 is really the new 40, then my friend is 50. Ah, were it only that simple!

I'm the sermonizer of it's never too late. And I take this personally. When I ask 'is it possible, ' I don't mean is it possible for a woman of a certain age to fall in love, to be sensual, to perform sexually, to be romantically involved with a younger man -- any man. I mean is there a younger man -- any man -- who could feel all of these feelings -- genuinely -- for a woman 30 years his senior? Sometimes I'll be touched by a love story, in a film, a novel, a poem, and find myself weeping. Not for what I've lost. But for what I can't ever experience again. That really sucks! All those wonderful, terrible, metabolism-charging feelings. Oh, dear, I hope my friend doesn't lose any more weight! The last time I was thin, it was because I'd fallen in love. Too long ago to even do the arithmetic.

When I was in my late forties, a very nice young man got a crush on me. He was the brother of a gal who was in a show I was directing. He'd come to rehearsal several times; after one session he drove me home and invited me to a gathering he was having. I wasn't in love with him. I wasn't even strongly attracted to him. I was enamoured of the idea that a good looking guy had the hots for me. His sister told him how old I was and reprimanded him for his interest. And that was that. Well, he was a putz for listening to her. She was a putz for quelching his interest. I was a putz for giving a damn. Or for being turned on in the first place.

I don't know if after all these years of living alone, I could live with a man again. But I think it would be very nice to have someone (the Gentleman Caller?) take me to dinner, be my escort to theatre, or my traveling companion. And perhaps even stay to breakfast. Someone who was happy to see me, to be with me; who'd call to make sure that I'm okay. If my dear friend gets a rush when her contractor calls; if she takes the time to wash her hair, and dresses with care, and walks with energy to meet him for a consultation over the color of paint for the bathroom -- this is a tonic she sorely needed. I'll just hang around with lots of tissues when he moves on to his next project.

I received a call recently from a man I haven't seen in over 30 years. He says he'd like to come to see me the next time he can take a trip. I told him not to wait too long. And then I wrote:

Now he comes. Now that my smile is helped along by fixatives.
And my legs boast maps of several continents along with
similarities to the “camel with the wrinkled knees.” My face an
ancient calendar; and words like lust, insatiable, besotted,
one-more-time – are lost somewhere in Webster’s. Now he comes.
Looking so much younger than his years. A jogger, soccer player,
womanizer -- looking at me as though I were dinner.
Me – who can’t possibly serve myself up after a lifetime of saving
myself up. This is beyond ironic. Where has he been all this
waiting time? Will he care? Can I bear it if he does? What’s the
point of questioning the gift, lost in the mail for so awfully long.
But one does. When only one question matters. If not now, when?

THE ARRIVER
Mickey Coburn