In love with a much younger man

I admired his pale muslin curtains, and he said, “Thanks, I sewed them myself.” Not the kind of man I was used to. 

But then this man — my boyfriend, for now — is from another generation. Nineteen years younger than I am, he is different from men in their mid-fifties, my age. Clichéd as it is, I have seen him cry. Unashamedly emotional, he talks about his feelings, is concerned about my feelings and listens when I talk. He even remembers what I have said. I know because he has quoted me later, word for word. 

Viewed rationally, our love affair makes little sense. People look, trying to figure out what we are to each other. When we first realized what was happening between us, it was harder for him than for me. For me, what a coup — a vigorous young buck. But for him, what? A lover only 10 years younger than his mother. He confessed early on that having feelings for an older woman worried him. “Does it mean,” he asked, “that there’s something wrong with me?”

Yes, a voice in me replied. You should be with a beautiful young woman with a firm body and unlined skin; you should make a future together. “Love comes in all shapes and sizes,” is what I said out loud. “There’s no explaining it.” But he should have a family; he needs someone younger. And I need to find another partner. The problem is, I want one just like him.

Falling in love unexpectedly

Well…not completely like him. An older man would be more settled, with more options and freedom; more sophistication; probably more money. An older man would know himself and have answered lots of questions. He would be more or less done, as I am, with child rearing and career anxiety, able to put things in perspective. That would be good. But where will I find a man over 50 who loves to dance, who writes long emails full of chatty affection, who is trusting and funny, playful and tender, and careful with carbs? Who, while we’re at it, has a thick head of hair and a lean, strong body? 

He was a volunteer fitness instructor at the Y. I took his class every other week for two years, gazing at him appreciatively, as at other male instructors; there is a lot of gazing at the Y. But there was no one quite like him. A friend of mine remarked, after his class, that she had never before been thanked for doing push-ups; he always says thank you to his students after push-ups. It would never have occurred to me that something could grow between us, but when, by chance, we ran into each other several times outside the Y, I couldn’t help but notice how interested he was in my work and life. How widely he seemed to smile before class, when I appeared in my running shorts. Was he more friendly to me than to other sweaty women? I hoped that he was.