Vol. 2, Post #62 Unbothered?

I dunno...I'm hot AND bothered lately. You? My weekly sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, (people with readers).

I’m sure most of you have seen various social media accounts that feature some version of a smoldering, pouty woman (or conversely, a serene, tea-sipping yogi or a pajama’d up cozy chick) with a caption about how she’s in her “Unbothered” era.

“Unbothered” (in the manner to which I’m referring) is usually seen as a strength, and in this context, is meant to imply that the Unbothered Woman is so in her own peaceful pocket of Zen that nothing can touch her — not some 9 to 5 grind of a job, not politics, and certainly not some random dude who has engaged in eye-rolling behavior.

Caption on this ^^^ IG reel reads: “10 million views later, it’s only right to repost this gem 😂 I’m glad to know I’m not the only woman out there who is choosing her own peace (and some good snacks!). Cheers ladies!!! 🥂”

Peaceful? Hell yes. I’m peaceful. Unbothered? Nope. Not by a long shot. Hot and bothered, actually. I miss sex. Let’s talk about it.

I like the theory of Unbothered — no one should be able to disturb your valuable inner peace that, let’s face it, we are all clinging to by a thread. Right? Not since the week after 2016 election have I been in this many client meetings that ended with group hugs or even tears. This past week, I completely lost it at the Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds show at Barclays, and during the encore, “Into My Arms,” I was literally a puddle. Video snippet below from my friend S. who managed not to be sobbing.*

(*Sidebar to say that I also realized on my post-concert subway ride that I basically would go on a date with almost anyone in the audience that night. That usually happens when I see something at BAM or, once, at a George Saunders reading that my pal Janet Steen organized). You just KNOW when you’re among your people.)

I miss sex — have I mentioned that already? It’s been just over three months since I had any and ironically, a few days before I broke up with The Boyfriend, we had a pretty hot session in bed, so when I say “just over three months,” yes, I am counting. I love sex. I love masturbation. I love pleasure. Masturbation isn’t entirely cutting it right now. I miss the other person’s body.

Initially I thought that I’d go out and have some casual sex. But it’s not actually moving the dial, that thought. Sure, there are people with whom to have this casual sex but I’ve revised my thoughts on this. What I decided, almost immediately after writing that ^^^ casual sex post a few months back, is that what I actually really wanted was to just be alone, and that has most certainly been the palate cleanser I needed. I had some stuff to work out from past relationships, with partners and with myself. So in that way, I am VERY unbothered.

On that level, operating completely autonomously has been delectable. Standing in my kitchen eating tuna fish salad with capers AND dill AND lemon and chopped up radishes AND micro greens right out of the mixing bowl for dinner, smearing tiny bits on sourdough pretzels in lieu of making a proper sandwich, dropping the random spoonful on the floor that the dog can then snarf up, whilst wearing pajamas and then padding upstairs to go to bed at 8:30 pm has been HEAVENLY. Sleeping in the middle of the bed has been HEAVENLY. Waking up to brew coffee and taking the cup back UP to bed to drink it while wearing an eye mask has been HEAVENLY. Playing drums LATE LATE into the night has been HEAVENLY.

This from Melissa Rivers, daughter of Joan, on IG, who is my age (57):

Except right now I miss sex (um, Abbe, yes, you’ve said that. Twice before here already. Settle down). This thought started creeping up on me a few weeks back, and now, well, it’s here, squarely in my brain. Fuck. I miss fucking. It’s complicated.

Are you watching “Dying For Sex”? If yes, I’ll not spoil the end of it and if you’re not watching, it’s well worth it. Summary: a woman realizes she’s never had a partnered orgasm and that becomes her life’s work as she discovers she’s terminally ill. The first two or three episodes did not hook me entirely, but I stayed the course. And then, well, I’ll channel Roy Lichtenstein to describe the rest of it (it’s eight episodes and I watched it basically all in one sitting):

Shit got wild or maybe, shit got real and let’s just say that the series, on Hulu, did not shy away from any carnal desires or kinks in a refreshingly un-judgy manner. I loved it, and it broke my heart, while at the same time, my heart also SOARED because the protagonist in the show (played by Michelle Williams) took the kind of chances you take when you know that you’ve got nothing left to lose. Photo at top of this post is a scene from Episode Seven. Caption online where I found it reads: “There has never been a hotter heterosexual sex scene than Michelle Williams smelling Rob Delaney in her hospital bed in ‘Dying for Sex.”’ And yes, that’s what was happening. She told him that she wanted to smell him all over. Ugh, I LOVE THAT. That…THAT, Dear Readers, is precisely what I’m talking about when I say I Miss Sex.

So, getting back to Unbothered for another minute, yeah, I’m bothered. I’ve got nothing left to lose at this point in my life either, in theory. Child is launched. Business is chugging along. Home is beautiful, tranquil, and in theory, where I’ll be spending parts of the rest of my life (although that’s certainly not etched in stone. Other places beckon. And my dreams are vivid. We will see.)

How fucking beautiful AND scary is that? Nothing to lose.

I think I want a partner again. But I’m not sure how I want to go about finding one, even though my Dear Readers know I don’t eschew dating apps and have met one very pivotal partner and few less-so-but-still lovely partners online over the last five years. This bothers me, that not knowing.

And I’m hot, because I’m wanting both a partner’s attention and touch, so, back to hot and bothered, I don’t know what to do with myself, with regard to getting either.

I was speaking with my friend P. who thought she had connected with a potential “forever” partner (that phrase makes me laugh, since it mostly gets applied to pet adoptions, but it’s very applicable here too) and after a few really great months, nope, not a keeper. She was kind of frustrated by some of his habits, but what soured the milk for good, so to speak, was that she didn’t entirely trust him, and turns out she was correct to feel that way. When she texted me to tell me her news, she said she was heartbroken and angry, and in a follow up, added that her grown daughter suggested she take some time off to really “feel her feelings.” My friend’s response to her daughter? “I’m too old to wait.”

BINGO. Thank you, P., for voicing what many of us are feeling. What Michelle Williams’ character in “Dying Young” was feeling (not the old part, but the “time is running out” part).

What single Young Old hasn’t felt that at times? I rarely feel that way and yet there is a tinge of WTF in the air lately, as I picked up my new glasses (finally I need some, other than readers), as I completed my pre-admission forms for my annual physical and noted that over the last two years, since turning 55, I have to indicate if I can dress, bathe, feed, and, as they say, “toilet myself.” That’s all just insurance paperwork mumbo jumbo, but it’s paperwork that SUCKS.

As we were walking in to the Nick Cave show last week, my son ribbed me and our friends by asking, “Will I be the youngest person here?” He was not, and PS, he also said the show was “exquisite” but as I thought about his snarky comment, I was also looking around Barclays Center at all the people that I’d like to date, who look, well, NOT YOUNG.

So yes, I’m hot and bothered. Time is not running out but it is moving at an alarming rate of speed, JUST LIKE THE OLD FOLKS SAID IT WOULD. Am I being a delusional moron about this? I mean, I’ve had more than a handful of nice, respectable partners (or potential partners) over the last decade, many of whom I discarded as just not my vibe and, let me be honest, either a tiny bit staid or too vanilla for me.

I like it…weird. Shrugs shoulders. Is that foolish on my part now, or is that still the move? At least two or three of those staid/vanilla suitors I just mentioned were very ready to be my everything.

Have I dismissed the kind of love that Young Olds aspire to capture, in favor of the kind of love that makes me howl, makes me wet, makes me feel like Michelle Williams in that series? As in VERY HOT AND BOTHERED.

I have no idea. But, I’m opening myself up to start dating again, beginning with this post. It’s not an aggressive stance, more like “Dating In The Slow Lane” simply because it means I’m ready but not necessarily taking the driver’s seat. More like, potentially on a road to somewhere if the right person steps forward and asks to take the wheel.

And since I ALWAYS drive, this is a new position for me, and I’m ALL about new positions, even though my kick drum knee hurts (ha, it does). That reminds me of a post I saw on Glorious Broads IG, by the incredible

Maryjane Fahey

, and while she’s speaking to Boomers, the sentiment rings true for many of us (as I massage herbal pain cream on to my right knee).

(^^^This also remind me that the most recent chef/ex-boyfriend once texted me that he wanted to try some position he saw in porn, and while #missionaccomplished, I think we both took Advil for days afterwards).

Anyhoo, earlier this week, I was dragging the outdoor rugs, ottomans, and throw pillows up from my basement to get my front porch ready for warm weather when this thought occurred to me: It’s like I’m over here, waving the green flag for “Drivers, Start Your Engines!” So we’ll see what the summer brings. I plan to be as hot and bothered as humanly possible. What about you?