Updated: Jul 10
The years pass, the wrinkles creep up, the romantic options dwindle, career choices narrow, get a mortgage, and we settle.
That word has the same ring to me as the phrase tax returns. Do we stay with the guy who is nice, but never makes you orgasm? Do we have to trade that nail digging, lake shaking explosive feeling for security?
As I get closer to turning 100, it's a serious and scary thought.
OCD Oscar, who has now faded to being quieter than background noise in my life, probably never would have given me that insecure, stomach churning feeling those hot, emotionally unavailable men do. I would have had mediocre (at best) sex for the next 50 or how many ever years I have left on planet Earth, and the excitement of going through coupon books which would determine where we would be having dinner. Read that sentence again. Your eyes weren’t lying when you saw the word coupon. I believe the experience of using a cut out 1” x 1” paper coupon so that OCD Oscar could get one order of guacamole for free with a purchase of an entree has caused some PTSD.
It gets worse. The guacamole wasn’t nearly as good as it is from Chipotle, so it was a total wasteful mission.
And then, OCD Oscar actually handed the coupon to the bartender. She suppressed a questioning facial expression but accepted the thing.
“I wrote today,” I said, trying to turn the attention away from this frugality situation. Silly me, I expected a little ego stroke in return. Instead, OCD Oscar replied, “You know I don’t read.” Yes, he’s said this before, but I still haven’t managed to process a man who is over 40… and will refuse to read anything other than the encyclopedia because those “books” contain facts. Lots of books contain facts. Although this writing piece isn’t a book, it contains this factoid: OCD Oscar is cringeworthy.
That all being said, if I actually stayed with him, would all that settling actually be worth whatever fake blanket of security I imagined my future life to be wrapped in?
Probably not. Actually, definitely not. Just because I have something resembling cottage cheese thighs when I sit in certain positions or strange lines on my face overshadowed by adult pimples doesn’t mean I can only have the glass half empty of tap water. Why can’t I have the life of the glass being half full of club soda with a nice shot of Grey Goose for some excitement?
Settling. I'll go down that Boulevard kicking and screaming.