Okay, here’s the deal.
I’m in my fifties, she’s in her forties, she looks like she’s in her thirties, has a body of a woman in her twenties, and together we act like we’re in our teens.
How did this happen?
To answer that, my little buckaroos, we must travel back to the days of yesteryear, when Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ topped the charts, All in the Family was the #1 TV show and the horror of disco had yet to befall us.
I was in my late teens when I met the blond-haired, green-eyed beauty who would become my wife and soul mate. Like me, she was a musician and had the amazing talent of ‘perfect pitch’ which means she could tune a musical instrument without using a pitch pipe or tuning meter. We played in several bands, as a duet, as studio musicians and played every gin joint, dive, dump, hell-hole, strip-club and mob front (as well as CBGB’s) in the New York area. After dating off and on for several years we decided to get married. When the children arrived we knew our rock and roll days were over so we moved to a popular tourist town in upstate New York.
We were happily married for 25 years and then suddenly…
I had no idea what I had done (or perhaps what she had done) to make her suddenly hate me with a white hot rage that at times made me concerned for my well-being.
So we got a divorce.
But I liked being married, liked having someone to come home to, liked having someone to share my life with. So I started dating again. I kept it low key and enjoyed the company of several interesting women but after about a year and a half my full length bathroom mirror sat me down and set me straight on the ways of the world. It said:
“Listen up, Gramps.” (Yeah, my mirror calls me Gramps even though I have no grandchildren.) “You’re no longer the strutting, self-confident, charismatic lead singer/guitarist for a rock band. You are now a bejowled, pudgy, middle-aged man with an emerging bald spot whose attractiveness to the opposite sex went the way of the Big-Hair bands. So my advice is to resume smoking, drinking, eating crappy fast foods and do everything possible to bring on that big heart attack because let’s face it, you’re old, in the way and will never meet anyone as uniquely suited to you as your ex.”
Wow, I just realized what a douche my mirror is!
Anyway, I didn’t resume smoking, drinking or eating fast foods but did realize the mirror had a point so I dated less and less and finally not at all.
Over time I became resigned to never being romantically involved again and started a new life, made new friends and picked up the guitar (something I hadn’t done in decades) and started hitting the open mike venues.
I joined a writer’s group, did a book tour to promote my YA novel ‘Frostie the Deadman,’ wrote several new books, wrote a popular Christmas song, built a backyard deck, built a new roof for the garage, tiled the living room floor, started a publishing company, designed its logo, started a blog (apparently, you already know that) and taught myself how to play the mandolin.
But I still missed women.
But apparently they didn’t miss me.
Then the strangest thing happened. A manager of a local supermarket, a woman I had been casually nodding or waving to for over a decade mentioned she had read my books and enjoyed them. She then smiled and leaned toward me
Being the Casanova that I am I said, “Thank you” and wandered off.
When I got home my bathroom mirror said, “Psst! Hey Gramps, come here.”
“Screw you!” I replied. My conversations with the mirror rarely go well.
“Seriously, old timer, come here,” it said. “I’ve got something important to tell you.”
I stopped, turned and with a sullen expression stomped into the bathroom and said, “All right, Douchie McDouchebag, what do you want?”
And it said, “That woman from the supermarket digs you.”
I smirked. “You mean that hottie manager?
I flashed a look of disbelief. “You’re crazy!” I said and waved him off as I left.
Ten minutes I get an email from her asking if I’d like to get coffee. So I took her to dinner and we’ve been dating ever since.
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