Lately, all my friends’ posts on Facebook seem to center around their parents’ deaths and grandchildren.  I’m not ready for either of those events.  It’s so depressing to think about someone my age having grandkids.  Jesus.  I feel like I’m still a kid myself.  But a lot of us married young in Indiana; we were babies having babies.  And then those babies did the same.  And those parents, who seemed old when I was 12, were probably in their late twenties or early 30’s.  Time flies.

On the other hand, I heard a story this week about a man who died at 100 years old who had spent the last 30 years a widower.  Thirty years.  That seems like a fucking lifetime itself.  And when you figure that was probably after he was married for 50 years, it’s just amazing.  So while I’m feeling like my life has flashed before me, I wonder what in the world lies ahead if I’m so lucky to live another half a century.  I have time for almost three more 17-year marriages.  Or not.

Another tidbit I heard this week was from a girlfriend who is slightly younger than I who said she was reminded recently that she’s getting to the age when women become invisible to men.  I felt offended by that at first, but I don’t want that kind of attention at this age, anyway.  I’m tired of dating.  I don’t need someone to come on to me to feel good about myself.

I certainly don’t aspire to remarry either, but never say never, I guess.  Mostly I think marriage is a pretty stupid, out-dated tradition that fucks a lot of people up when (surprise) people wake up one day and realize they want something different.  But I do see myself growing old with someone I love, even though I’m not quite sure what that story looks like exactly.  But I’d have to really, really like him – a lot – to share my bed, my remote, and my front porch.

It’s not the snuggling up for football or having a date for Valentine’s Day that makes me happy at a cellular level (not to discount either of those, except Valentine’s Day has turned into a busy, commercialized mess and if I had a choice, I think I’d opt for a romantic dinner at home).  What makes me truly happy is very hard to describe.

It’s a mingling of souls – a conversation between hearts – and a contentedness that comes in trusting another person who has proved himself worthy of my devotion.  It’s a gut-level knowing that it’s safe to open my life and my heart without Fear.  I don’t think that comes along very often.

And a hair-raising, adrenaline-surging, mind-blowing sexual attraction pretty much seals the deal.

I do need to get those rocking chairs fixed – just in case.

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