Vol. 1, Post #47 Warning: Contents May Have Settled

Settling. All the ways. My sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, AKA, people with readers.

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It’s not really ruining my life but I’m thinking a lot about settling and standards, fuckability and forgetability, and oh my god, THE SUBSTANCE, which I saw earlier this week and which touched on all of these topics.

But first, Dear Readers, a little housekeeping. For those of you who follow me on social media, you may know that my most recent relationship just ended. I’m not avoiding the details to be coy…I’m avoiding the details because I told my pals at Jenny Magazine that I wanted to write about my breakup and that piece is going to run next week, so sit tight, it’s a-comin’.

That said, breakups are never easy for either person when there are warm and caring feelings, so I am sad. The Boyfriend is indeed a gem and I will miss lots of things about him, but at the same time, he’s not my guy. And THAT? That I’ll talk about now…

Actually, what I originally told The Jennys was that I wanted to write about how I might suck at relationships. That’s what I was thinking about three weeks ago when I could not shake the feeling of, dammit, something is wrong. Is it me? It was only after I started scratching out the article that I realized I don’t suck at relationships. I suck at settling.

That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Ugh, this is so difficult to explain. Let's see if I can find words because I’m not at my most articulate in this moment. As mentioned, many times over these last seven months, I was happily dating a lovely man who has so many wonderful attributes and we’ve enjoyed lots of fun together. A few months back, I started to get a tiny bit worried, because I know myself well and this was the question that was banging around my brain: I don’t love him, and by now, shouldn’t I?

You know exactly what I mean, right? If you’ve been in love, you know how that sloppy, soppy, gooey, messy, nonsensical feeling just starts bubbling up, usually to explode out of you and SPLAT! all over the object of your affection with no ability to control it or tamp it down (kinda like the end of THE SUBSTANCE, but in a good way). You’re singin’ in the rain. You’re walking on sunshine. OR, you’re so lovesick that you can’t eat, can’t sleep, you burst into tears at all the weirdest moments, trace their initials a million times a day on the leg of your jeans, jerk yourself off and think of them as you come and then maybe cry some more but it’s all delicious crying, all that release, feeling like yesssssssssssssss. OR, maybe you feel like there’s a fleece blanket carpeting your insides because you’re just warm and woozy around your person and when you discuss where you want to eat dinner, or if you want to go for a hike this weekend, you suddenly lower your gaze, swallow hard, maybe close your eyes and whisper out loud or even to yourself, “I love you.”

I’ve been all of those things when I’ve been in love and this relationship was missing that heady buzz. So, I started to think about other things that were very present between us, the elements that were so good about our partnership, and there were A TON of those to think about. And that led me to think about companionship, which is what many Young Olds really want above all else, and who could blame them? Yes, some want lock-it-down emotional security, or the financial exhale that comes with splitting the bills with a partner, or a perma-date for the Big Holidays. Those things are not terribly interesting to me. Don’t misunderstand me — I don’t NOT want those things, but they don’t compel me to stay in a partnership. I wish I had a healthier relationship with money and savings but as widely acknowledged in my larger circle, my tombstone will read, “She died nearly penniless but with a great art collection.” Oh well.

Companionship, as we age, tends to slide in close, put its arm around you, hold you tight, stroke your hair. For those of you who have been in committed partnerships or marriages for decades, it’s entirely possible that your companion drives you batshit and you only exhale when they leave the house, giving you just A FEW PRECIOUS HOURS, SWEET MERCIFUL JESUS, of alone time. But for those of us who are single in midlife, particularly those who have been single for some time, companionship checks a lot of boxes and covers a multitude of sins.

For me, companionship without deep passion is sort of hollow. And — again — I’m not disparaging my last relationship, but I didn’t feel a wholly passionate connect while I was in it, not like some of my previous relationships. And I missed that.

Lemme stop right there and say what AT LEAST a few dozen of you are thinking right now, which is this: some of my previous relationships featured partners with whom I had earth-shattering hot sex, who ended up being real heartbreakers and in that group of devils is at least one person whose name is not uttered aloud without eye rolling. Don’t worry. Not going back there. I’m way too serene and anyway, I had a lengthy, very satisfying and tender talk with Mr. Not Uttered Aloud recently and he validated all the good, bad, and ugly stuff that passed between us and owned all his shit, so in theory, that circle is now closed.

I’m sure that at some point, I won’t be so led by my passionate desire for someone, but that day is not today. Hence, why I was wondering what was wrong with me, in that I wasn’t feeling engaged with The Boyfriend. Our relationship had gotten a little bit, ok, stale, as of late. There was too much lounging around at home. I decided to bring it up and we had a decent exchange about it. Efforts were made — very nice, generous efforts. My heart swelled with gratitude at first, but it was, alas, fleeting. I continued to think, “OK, you’re missing the point of this. You are going to be 57 soon. Life with The Boyfriend is pretty swell, in that you have tons in common; you appreciate each other’s goodness; and he even more-than-tolerates The Dog. Your sex life is good. Isn’t this what you want?”

No, it’s not what I want. That’s settling and, for better or worse, I’ve never settled for anything in my life. And, just for the record? Pretty sure The Boyfriend was not in love with me either. But he was comfortable being comfortable. And I was not.

Still, there were some surprising reactions to the breakup news. One or two people that I know quickly told me that The Boyfriend was a catch and in a sea of shitty men, had I considered that?

Of course I had considered that but guess what? I’m a catch too. Not settling.

One person gently pointed out that I enjoy dating Jewish men for the commonality we share, and The Boyfriend is a Member Of The Tribe. That’s true. Also true? Not settling.

And one person told me that since The Boyfriend and I both lived upstate, it made dating so convenient and took out of the equation the dreary back and forth between NYC and the Hudson Valley, or similar. True. But I’ve dated (and lived with) partners who resided a few hours away, happily adopting a new rhythm. Dating as dictated by postal codes that cozy up to each other? Nope. Not settling.

This brings me to THE SUBSTANCE. It’s a feminist masterpiece and an utterly absurd gross out monster movie. I cannot recommend it enough.

I watched it with a friend the night after I broke up with The Boyfriend, both of us slightly stoned and completely agog, mouths hanging open for much of the film. As a commentary on beauty standards, aging, the male gaze, and all the rest of the bullshit that gets shoved down the throats of women who are 50 and older, it made my blood run cold. As a woman older than 50, who had just made a decision to end a relationship that many people would love to be in, I watched Demi Moore on screen bargaining with herself for just a little bit more attention, just a little bit more love, just a few more eyes on her and only her, just a little bit more time in the sun. It was frightening how nothing could quash the living nightmare that (Demi’s character) Elisabeth imagined herself settling into, now that she was no longer “a star.”

Polarizing as fuck depending on which reviews you read, THE SUBSTANCE reinforced that for some, settling is akin to dying. And while that’s an overstated, grandiose simplification, I understand and value how important it is to be seen, while you’re naked, throbbing, sighing, crying, laughing, ALIVE. So…saddle the fresh horses. We’re off to the races again.