I was a gregarious child. I used to dance with my belly before I could walk and when I could finally maneuver on two legs, I would grab any unsuspecting human close to my size, shake them, and make them dance with me.My first best friend was my neighbor, Michael Casey. We were together constantly. This was perhaps why a lot of my friends are men now. I entered kindergarten at 4.5 years old and had my first boyfriend named Brian for two years. He was very polite, wore a bow tie, and played the violin. Mom reminded me that I brought him to my birthday party in a headlock.
I used to pitch a fit because our teacher would not allow me to sleep next to him during nap time. He two-timed me the following year and gave me the same doll he bought this silly blonde girl named Kathy who had hair that stuck straight out of her head. After an hour of heart-wrenching sobs on my Mother’s lap, I dumped him. Believe it or not, I did have a strong sense of right and wrong, and fidelity in those days (still do).
I was ten when I entered the seventh grade and very advanced in mind, but not in body. I convinced my parents to allow me to do the things that the other kids were doing, like shave my legs and even date (ok, Dad dropped me off at the movie theater to meet my surfer boy-friend).
I entered high school at age 12 (skipped a grade when I was 8). I was teased for years for being underdeveloped as compared to the other girls. This nasty boy named Richard Lujan made me cry by continuously calling me Pirate’s Delight (sunken chest). At 14, I really showed Richard! I sprouted almost overnight (over the summer, actually).
But in spite of all of this early “experience” with the opposite sex, I didn’t inherit the Donna Reed gene. I had the Easy Bake Oven and the Barbies, but there must have been a disconnect. Born in the fifties, I think this makes me somewhat of an oddity. It wasn’t until after I was living with a man a few years ago that I realized this. When he mentioned something about wanting a hot meal on the table (and he didn’t mean me), I started to squirm.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m Italian, so I’m a pretty good cook and I love to be in the kitchen nuzzling with a man, a couple of glasses of wine, and the smell of garlic and mushrooms sautéing in a pan. But when it’s EXPECTED of me, I start Michael Jackson-moonwalking backwards.
I guess I should have known. Looking back, my “oven” didn’t pre-heat at age 30 for the buns that were supposed to be in there and I never wanted to inherit my Mom’s good china. But maybe there are a lot more women out there like me who just won’t admit it, especially at this age. We are “supposed” to want these things. Barbie wanted to marry Ken and have the house, car, kids, didn’t she? (I remember liking the cool jeep much better than the house.)
And what happens when a fifty-something gal has done all of the cooking, cleaning, raising stuff and her guy finds a cute thirty-something to chase after and he bails? Or more sadly, dies. Or perhaps SHE tires of it all and makes her own quick exit after the nest empties. If she meets another man, is she ready for a repeat or a respite?
As we approach the autumn years (God, I hate that analogy), I think there might be two types of men out there who await us (help me out here, guys)… one who can’t make toast and is still looking for the apron-clad Mommy type who will cook, clean, sort, stack, and serve; and the other who loves to pour a glass of cabernet and co-cook over a steamy stove (or get steamy over a… never mind) and is looking for a great traveling pal who can hop a plane without calling a baby-sitter or exchanging weekends with her ex, and who doesn’t have a lot of (hate this overused word too) BAGGAGE.
I prefer to think of myself as one of those eccentric commodities who travels light. I carry a “Barbie bag” (sans the insignia) instead of a big suitcase. (I do this literally, too. I was stopped at customs after arriving in Mexico. They thought I had either lost my kid or was smuggling drugs, but they let me in anyway.)
Oh, well. Maybe I got the Ann-Margret gene instead.
Copyright 2008 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.
