Trophy hunting
On an evening lately, I’ve been working with a colleague at her boyfriend’s house in order to get a demanding work project finished. In the process, I’ve been granted an unforeseen peek into the dynamic at play between an older man and a (much) younger woman.
Alison, my colleague, must be a good 20 years younger than Rob, her once-divorced boyfriend with whom she’s pretty much shacked up. Rob is my age, and, if I were to look at it objectively, probably quite a good suitor for me. So, what makes this eligible but older man go for a younger woman? Um, let me see, could it be her taut body, cute giggle and delightful naivety? Okay, perhaps a better question, then, is what makes this younger woman go for the old geezer? Of course, there’s always the bank balance, but Alison, who is not, I’ll admit, the gold-digging type, insists that she’s simply bowled over by this Rob, with his infinite wisdom and his 40-year-old man boobs (might I add, though, that on most occasions when I arrive at the house, Rob can be found lounging in his custom-made Jacuzzi sipping a not-too-shabby Chateauneuf du Pape).
Why am I getting myself bent all out of shape over this older guy-younger woman set up? Because this “teenager” is dipping her bloody rod – toned as it might be – into my lousy dating pond, which is all but fished out as it is. For sistahood’s sake, can’t she see that there’s just not enough to go round for us “older” women, who find ourselves washed up on the shores of singledom again, to still have to compete with a pair of pert young knockers? It’s downright disrespectful, I tell you.
I guess some would call it vengeful if I were to advise Alison to teleport herself into the future and consider how a 60-year-old Rob will look to her, a 40-is-the-new-30 self-discovered women. Does she really want to spend her vivacious fifties alternately changing false teeth and a catheter bag? And what if they have kids. Imagine 10 years from now, she’s buying Pampers for the little one and Viagra for him – may as well throw in a dose of Prozac for her too, then, such will be the job of managing the two.
- Single-again Samantha
To split or not to split?
Now don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a modern, progressive woman totally in touch with my inner feminist and all that jazz. So, why is it then that I still expect the guy to pick up the first-date tab? Yes, I can feed myself (and my child) on my own dime, and yes, I know men no longer necessarily fill the traditional breadwinner-boots, but there’s something about splitting that first bill that leaves a bad taste in my gold-digging mouth.
Still, I always offer and this, according to my dating-guru sister, is mistake number one. Don’t offer or, even worse, haul out your purse. Just smile sweetly and graciously acquiesce. Far from thinking you’re after a meal ticket, a man feels emasculated when you come over all “independent woman” like, says Nicci. She throws in words such as “chivalry” and talks about “the chase”, but even she finds it hard to argue the double standard at work here. For decades, we women have fought to be considered equals on every level and yet, to put it bluntly, if he don’t fork out, chances are we ain’t gonna put out.
Nonetheless, it would seem Nics may not be that far off the mark. Alec and I met at my local Thai for a blind-date dinner orchestrated by a mutual friend. It was a stilted affair made worse by the fact that, in empathy for Alec’s former alcohol problem, I abstained from my usual glass of Dutch courage. After an hour or two of forced conversation and the odd concealed yawn, we decided to call it a night. While Alec signaled the waiter’s attention, I reached for my penis-reducing wallet. Well, like Nicci predicted, I could almost see the guy visibly shrivel before my eyes. Hugely offended, he launched into a long diatribe relaying in minute detail the origins of his self-made fortune and the fact that he was, in no uncertain terms, not a tightwad. Quickly replacing the offending item, I then tried the smiling-sweetly thing, but alas, it was too late.
So much for chivalry, though… the guy didn’t even hold the door for me on the way out. Go figure…
- Single-again Samantha
Seven-year itch
I’ve never been much good at birthdays – I hate the attention but if I don’t get it I sit around and sulk. It’s a no-win situation. Every year I try to let my birthday fly under the radar and every year one from my bunch of reprobate friends ends up getting me drunk. So, to make matters worse, I start the beginning of the rest of my life with a pounding head and a dire thirst – a rude reminder that the older I get, the more my body rejects a whole bottle of bubbly.
This year my birthday fell on a Saturday, and the only advantage I saw in it was that, for the first time in seven years, I’d escaped having to take a bucket load of (expensive) cupcakes to work. Mom and Dad were in the Bahamas and little one was being packed off on a well-timed sleepover so I applauded the fact that the family-bonding thing was out of the equation… as in no waiters gathering around to sing happy birthday a cappella-style at the local steak ranch. I was free to sit and wallow happily – Bridget-Jones style with face pack on – in the misery of turning another year older, single still.
Things went horribly wrong when Amy, another single-again mom whose ex’s weekend it was, decided to join my pity party with her friend Jack Daniels. Yes, we did girly things like talk wardrobes and washing, and sure we bemoaned our fate and cursed all men, but we also had a good laugh at how far we’ve swum in the last seven years through the murky waters of divorce, infidelity, custody battles, career ladders, mortgage repayments and science projects, and the fact that we’re both still afloat, if barely.
And I went to bed that in the early hours of Sunday morning grateful for good friends and wondering if, by the time my birthday falls on a Saturday again, I’ll still be single (and the room will have stopped spinning…)
- Single-again Samantha
The chemistry of love
Apparently love is no longer about woozy butterfly flutters, sweaty palms and racing hearts – it’s far more scientific than that. On a recent cyber-sleuthing mission, I came across a dating website that claims to partner subscribers based on their genetic compatibility. According to GenePartner.com (whose byline reads, “Love is no coincidence”), we are programmed to seek out partners who have a similar DNA make-up to our own – it’s got to do with biological evolution, survival of the species, blah, blah, but essentially, the site claims that it has the scientific matchmaking formula and for $99 and a (decidedly unromantic) mouth swab, they can tell you whose genes you should be trying to get into.
Now something about all of this appears far too technical to me. I mean, what next…? A urine sample? That’s quite an icebreaker. It just seems to remove all the magic from the act of falling in love, turning it into something systematic, logical even. Besides, it leaves no room for personality matching or, god forbid I should be so superficial, visual attraction. I mean let’s face it, I may be genetically on a par with the Incredible Hulk but that doesn’t mean I want to have his little green babies. As I see it, the psychology of love involves attraction on multiple levels, some even subliminal.
So, while I’m not denying that the emotions involved in falling in love are hugely physiological, and I’m not disputing the fact that love actually has nothing to do with the heart and everything to do with head, I don’t think I’m alone in favoring the rather more esoteric notions of love (I mean it’s not as if Hallmark is selling Valentine’s cards of arrow-pierced brains). Putting a scientific spin on the whole business of falling in love seems to rob it of all the fun. It’s like a genetic pre-nuptial agreement: “Hey babe, I love you and all but won’t you take this quick test.”
Besides, shouldn’t love be more art than science?
- Single-again Samantha
Single-again Samantha: Yummy mummies
Brave is the bachelor who takes on the burden of the woman who has a child, many men would say. I beg to argue. Single moms are a catch and the more men wake up to the fact, the more we’re becoming a dying breed, girls.
What guy isn’t attracted to a strong independent-thinker who’s used to making her own choices in life? Only one who’s more mouse than man. And what guy wouldn’t be attracted to the woman who has learned – through loving a child – that love can be limitless and entirely without judgment? Only one with his own mother issues.
The single mother comes with more perks than you guys think. We’ve taught ourselves to become financially independent (and we can be depended on to scrape the remains of the jelly jar when times are tight). We’re the most patient people in the world and – out of necessity – know how to juggle responsibilities and to prioritize. We’re discerning when it comes to choosing partners and friends, not having the time to waste on energy-sappers. We’re also less likely to waste your time – mainly because we’re on the sitter’s clock. We’re through with playing games and have more of a vested interest in being in it for the long run.
On a purely physiological level, we’ve proven that we are fertile and able to play our role in the survival of the species. We’re adept with a drill, can light a barbeque and know who to call when we need to change a tire. We also enjoy time out more… mainly because we’re more used to giving it than receiving it. We’re an enthusiastic lay if you play your cards right. We have Playstation in the living room and a basketball hoop in the yard. And we make a damn fine mac n cheese.
- Single-again Samantha
Coffee cups and post-it notes
Today they asked me to organize the collection for the boss’s birthday gift. Sure, I said, I’ll try to fit it in between my bikini wax and my frontal lobotomy. I mean come on people. Do you have any idea what my day’s like?
The alarm jolts me from glorious sedation at 5.45. I hit it for five, then another five, then five too many. Unglue the eyelids, yank the kid out of bed, jump into the shower, shovel breakfast down the kid’s throat, into the traffic, drop kid at school, do make-up in the car, trying not to spill macchiato while steering with my knee.
Into the office and before I’ve even reached my desk I’m dragged into the boardroom – desperately needing a pee – for a meeting that ends two hours later. Hobble out, read emails and learn that the report that was due today… was due at 9. Notice I’ve had three missed calls from the school and that I forgot to eat breakfast. Answer the phone with a mouth full of bagel only to discover that my date of three nights ago – the one I’d kind of given up on – would like to take me out again. Temporary lapse of concentration due to high-speed daydream. Huh? What was that? The deadline’s been pushed forward? No problem, can I offer you a light for that joint you’re smoking?
Diaries to keep. Lists to make. Deadlines to meet. Aaargh, get me off this treadmill. Back into the traffic, pick up kid, shop for dinner, phone call to mother, eat, walk dog, bath, story, bedtime, much-needed glass of wine… Fall asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, wake up at 2.30am, crawl to bed only to wake up 3 hours later, make-up stains on the pillow, and begin all over again.
- Single-again Samantha
Bouncing back after divorce
Every morning I scrutinize myself in front of the mirror and, like most women, I suspect, I take critical stock of the orange-peel thighs and flabby underarms. When I gave birth to my daughter, so amazed was I at the miracle my body had performed, that I vowed never to be so hard on it again. But… well, let’s just say, those fat rolls don’t sit well (especially in the pre-pregnancy jeans I insist on hanging onto).
My friend Harriet always says “a fat is a happy dog” – easy for her, contentedly married 10 years with a kilogram to show for each one of them. Truth be told though, I too wallowed in the comfort zone of my marriage, convincing myself that my husband wouldn’t mind the odd love handle or two – turns out he didn’t mind them, just not on me. (Let me tell you girls that one of the sweetest revenges you can get is to embark on a little post-divorce clean up – knock yourself into shape, have a color and a cut and invest in a new wardrobe. When my ex and I met up to sign the papers a few months after we’d parted ways, I could visibly see him asking himself, “What have I done?” The regret was palpable.)
I’m not promoting that we do what women of my mother and grandmother’s generation did in an attempt “to keep their men.” To her dying day, my gran would sneak out of bed while her hubby was still sleeping in order to “put her face on”. Then she’d sneak back into bed and make like she’d been sleeping all along, albeit with perfectly kohl-lined eyes and rosebud cheeks.
I’m not even suggesting that we should keep up appearances for the sake of hooking a man. Looking good is a confidence booster, and god knows, every divorcee can do with some of that. Taking care of yourself is a duty of self respect. And, on that note, I’m off to the gym… now where did I put that lippy?
- Single-again Samantha
Single-again Samantha: Terms of agreement
Just today I had lunch with my gay friend, Mark. Aah, the gay friend – no self-respecting single gal should be without one. Marc is also on his own, defiantly proud of his self-sufficiency on the one hand, and fed up with the solitary life, on the other. Over salad wraps we vehemently assert our independence, how much better our lives are for not having to make decisions in consultation or change the head of the electric toothbrush. After all, who needs Mr Right when Mr Video and Mr Delivery are but a click away? Truth is, we’d both trade our so-called independence in the blink of an eye for sustained companionship and perhaps a bit of nooky.
But it’s got me thinking… this thing of not having to get consensus before making a big decision. Sure, I bounce stuff off my friends and family, even my ex if it involves our daughter. But, at the end of the day, the decisions are mine to make. There’s something frightening about it, but also downright liberating.
When my ex and I were going for the obligatory pre-nuptual marriage counseling, the priest asked us how we would make a decision as a couple if neither of us could agree with the other. A really big decision, like moving abroad or having another child. He made us go away and think about it until the next session (I suppose the fact that neither of us could reach consensus on how we would reach consensus should made warning bells ring). Point is, when we returned the following week and were still without a solution that we felt would make both parties happy, our priest suggested that one partner be chosen as the decision maker and the other then agree to the decision made by that partner. Of course, the catch is that the decision-making partner is then forced to make a decision for two, taking into very real account the effect of that decision on his or her spouse. I thought it clever – if you truly love another your decisions should always encompass the needs, feelings and wants of that person.
Still, for now I’m quite enjoying not having to consult anyone else when deciding how best to enjoy a rare childfree Saturday morning.
- Single-again Samantha
