The Leper's Colony

Earlier today, I opined that even when I finally reach my weight loss goal, and I finally believe that might actually be possible, men will still ignore me simply because I am not 20 years old.

Hmmmph! Don't men ever stop to think what they might be missing by not getting to know older women? We're experienced, wise, kinder and less judgmental than we were in our first bloom, and more accepting of human failings in others because we're more aware of our own. But unlike other cultures where the wisdom of age is respected and relied upon, here in America, growing older is treated like a hideous disease. At least for women it is.

You know the old, true, but unfair saying, "Men grow distinguished while women grow haggard?"

Yeah, that one.

Haggard is terrifying to most of us. Here's an example. I am finally, at the tender age of 59, beginning to show a little age on my face. Just within the last week, as I've continued to lose weight, my face is collapsing ever so slightly as the underlying collagen infrastructure softens and settles. I was at the dermatologist having a mole checked and he looked at my face with concern. Then he softly touched the two gentle valleys that were forming on either side of my mouth.

"Don't you want me to fill those in?" he asked.

"No, I don't," I replied. "They're MY wrinkles, I've earned them and I'm proud of them."

He sent me away with a puzzled look, shaking his head as if considering whether he should have written me a referral to a psychiatrist. I mean, what woman wouldn't want to look younger?

This woman. I mean, think about it logically. If I look way younger than my age and I have lost all my weight, I might attract a much younger man. What could be wrong with that? Well, I've already raised my children. If there's going to be a man in my life at all, which at this late date I doubt, I want one who is my contemporary, who can laugh about the 60s and the 70s because he lived through them as a teen and young man, and not just because he read about them in a history book.

Alas, most of the available men my age, upon finding themselves single either through the death of their spouse or by divorce, immediately turn to the androgenous, anorexic "he-women," who weigh 95 pounds and 80 of those pounds are in their fake boobs. Most of the rest of the weight is taken up with hair extensions and gel nails. I mean really, you might as well sleep with a blow-up doll, but what from I read, many of you do anyway.

Geesh again.

This disrespect of and disaffection toward older women is not a problem I am going to solve all by myself. There are occasions, rare but undeniable, when I miss the comfort and warmth of an intimate relationship. But why risk it when I know all that awaits any forays in that direction is scorn and rejection? I can live without that.

Instead, like other older women, I am dismissed instantly and consigned to The Leper's Colony. It's where they send all women over the age of 30, all less than perfect or bothersome women, the place they'd prefer not to think about in case Fate ever sends them there.

On the whole, I am content with my life. I have two wonderful grown children, both a daughter and a son, a loving family of two sisters and a brother, supportive friends and work that I love. What more could I ask?

Oh, except for maybe...a day pass out of The Leper's Colony. That would be nice.