| DGouldthorp | member since May 2009 |
 | October 7, 2009, 5:59 pm Senior Moments With Gouldthorp (Oct 09) “A what?” I sputtered into my wine glass. “You heard me,” my friend grinned as he set his own glass on the table, lowering his voice to no more than a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve decided that what you need is a wife.” Heart and mind racing, I stared at him in disbelief with the metallic taste of fear in my throat. “Look, Dan, our evenings together; a glass of wine, some nibblies and an hour or two of pleasant conversation are something I always look forward to. So why go and spoil it with such a depressing topic?” You see, Dan’s one of those guys who’s been married to the same woman for nearly fifty years and is still madly in love with her. He and Emma moved into the neighborhood a couple of years ago and has become good company for me on quiet evenings. Once every couple of weeks he drops in for an hour or two to chew the fat while she’s off at one of her sewing circles or whatever. “But Dave,” he pressed on, “you’re at the age when you should have someone in your life.” His finger jabbed the air. “You need a wife.” He was right on one count; age - I’m rushing headlong towards that magical age when I’ll officially be a Senior Citizen; you know, the big six-five, and I don’t like it one bit. Granted, my exterior appearance, like that of my home, has seen better days but inside, I’m ready for anything. Well, anything besides a wife. But he wouldn’t let it go. “You rattle around in this old house all on your own with nothing to do all day...” The thought of cold-cocking him with the wine bottle crossed my mind. “Now hold on there, Danny-boy,” I muttered, interrupting his train of thought, “I may have retired but I’m busier now than I ever was when I went to work. My vegetable and herb garden’s a full-time job on its own. I bake my own bread; make yogurt, cheese, jams and pickles. Add to that the time I spend at the gym and cycling, and every day’s completely full. Sometimes I’m so busy rushing around that I meet myself coming back!” The silence between us was palpable. Imagine Dick Cheney and Nancy Pelosi playing spin-the-bottle. I had to break the stalemate. “I think the problem is not so much that married men live longer than single men, it’s just that married men are a lot more willing to die at an earlier age. Besides, I declared with a note of triumph, “being alone is not the same as being lonely.” “But you need someone to, you know, help tidy up after you,” he replied. “No I don’t!” I exclaimed. “Heck, I’m still trying to find half of my papers from when my last wife tidied my desk.” “Last wife? You never told me that you’ve been married more than once,” he said, eyes widening over the rim of his wine glass. “Well, let’s see,” I said, counting on my fingers. “First there was….” “Never mind,” he interrupted. “So you’ve been married more than once.” He stared off into space, trying to find the right words for the next question. “So, what happened?” His eyes brightened. “It couldn’t possibly be because you’re a cantankerous old sour-puss who doesn’t like kids, animals, neighbors, noise or anyone who doesn’t share the same political views as you, could it? So what was the problem?” Problem? I tried to marshal my thoughts. “Well, marriage is when two people become one; but the problem is deciding which one.” I paused, trying to come up with an honest answer. “I think the real problem is the training program.” “Training program?” “Yes; the husband-in-training job description keeps changing over time – we men are never told the rules, and the duration of the actual training program is never clearly defined and so, as memory serves me, I never did manage to graduate, no matter how hard I tried.” He helped himself to another glass of wine and stuffed another slice of bruschetta into his face. “You could always try one of those Internet dating sites,” he suggested. I thought for a minute. “Well, if I enjoy puttering around on my own and the dating site matches people who are similar, then it follows logically that whoever-she-is also likes puttering around on her own too. Which means we’re both happy without ever meeting the other, so matching us up would make us both miserable. Kind of a waste of time and money, don’t you think?” Defeated by my logic, Dan stared into his wine glass. “Maybe it’s just that you haven’t met the right woman, or even looked…yet. Hey, I’m not going to stretch the truth and say you’re anywhere close to good-looking, but now that you’ve lost all that weight on your Nutri-thingie website you’d be, um, at least passable in a poorly lit room I suppose.” Wounded by his appraisal of my curb appeal, I pleaded, “Dan, let’s not even go there,” but noooo... “Well, you know there’s my neighbor, Mrs. Johnson….” “You mean the one who won every one of the all-you-can-eat challenges at the County fair last year? “ “Yeah.” “If memory serves me correctly Dan, she’s banned from every buffet in town and besides, she’s got a moustache.” “So?” “Would you want to wake up every morning next to a female clone of Geraldo Rivera?” “Hmm, guess not, but how about Leona who works the bar on Karaoke nights at the Seniors’ Center?” “The one who takes her dentures out and plays them like the castanets when she’s had a skin full of tequila?” Poor Danny tried desperately one last time with the suggestion of Mrs. Blackburn. Now Mrs. B. is a good looking woman even when viewed without the assistance of alcohol but there are unanswered questions about how her five previous husbands met their untimely ends. We sat in a kind of petulant silence as dusk turned to darkness, and polished off the last of the wine; the quiet broken only by the crickets and frogs as they raised their Evensong chorus to the night sky. Danny sighed and shook his head. “Boy, you’re a hard one to please. There’s got to be someone you’d be interested in, or heaven help us, someone who might actually think you’re – how can I put it - worth the effort….” And with that, he disappeared into the night in a cloud of 1973 AMC Rambler exhaust and a huge sigh of relief from me. After I had cleared the dishes and washed the glasses, I sat down and tried to relax. But something kept nagging at me; thinking about the difference between being lonely and being alone. I pondered the fact that I’m happy in my own skin and the way I live my life but started to think that maybe there’s someone out there that could…perish the thought… And then it hit me. Imagine the following conversation down at the gym: “I haven’t seen Frank recently, have you?” “Didn’t you hear? He died last month – stroke.” “Oh no! What about Tom?” “Passed away in his sleep last week, poor guy. He was only fifty-nine.” “What about Gouldthorp. I haven’t seen him for a while. Have you?” “You mean you didn’t hear about old Goldy and that new aerobics instructor, Kimmy?” “The cute blond college kid with the big “future” in front of her and legs up to her shoulder blades who teaches the killer cardio class on Wednesdays? You mean Goldy overdid it and had a heart attack in her class?” “Even worse; the ceiling collapsed. Really tragic - they both died instantly” “In the aerobics studio?” “Nah; honeymoon suite at Caesar’s Palace.” _______________________________________________________________ Remember, it ain’t over till they screw the lid on.
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