n(o)de
My friend Dave, whose blog I check daily with gleeful anticipation, recently composed a rather marvelous post on the merits of thirty-something women. It was eloquent and funny and flattering and probably designed expressly to get in some girl’s pants, but no matter. I ate up every word.
And I would like to reciprocate here, to wax rhapsodic about the unexpected joys of dating men in their thirties, the balance of sexiness and sensibility that marks this decade, the girlish giggles and soulful stirrings they inspire.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love guys in their thirties. They’ve learned all this stuff since college: how to be confident without being cocky, how to stop before going too far, how to floss. They make things and do things and fix things with awe-inspiring ease. They’re still playful, but seem constantly surprised by their own capacity for maturity. Which is, you know. Pretty cute. So thirty-something men are awesome to be around.
But dating them? In my experience that’s just been fucking fraught with peril.
Most thirty-something men have decided – in all fairness, perhaps due to a decade of exposure to twenty-something women – that relationships are impossibly, discouragingly difficult. Such an ill-fated proposition as dating must therefore be approached with either neurotic, ulcer-inducing care, or avoided altogether. For years we aging women have been lightening up, revelation by revelation: This breakup did not in fact kill me! This particular guy wasn’t interested, and yet I still have value as a person! We have no long term potential, but check out his hands! Meanwhile there were the men, unlearning all they so carefully taught us. Two ships passing in the night.
So now all the guys who haven’t written off dating entirely – if not outright, then on a case-by-case basis while pointing at logistics and timing and blah blah fucking blah – approach each relationship with so much caution and logic that there’s nothing left for rash action and potentially humiliating declarations and all the other things that make new love so fabulously great. (And did you just cringe at the word love? Y’all overthink everything.) Twenty year old boys weren’t much to talk to, but at least when you kissed them they weren’t thinking Shit if I kiss her much longer she’s going to think I like her and then she’s probably going to fall for me and I don’t want to lead her on, especially after last week when I called her twice in a row without her calling me back in between, I never should have done that, she’s probably already naming our kids and I can’t take this, one of us is going to get hurt. Twenty year old boys were thinking This hot girl’s kissing me! Which is what we’d like you to be thinking now, and we wish we’d never gotten so good at hearing the things you don’t say out loud.
So come on thirty-something guys. Buck up. We’re glad you have feelings now, really, cause that shit you pulled on us at 23 sure could be brutal. But seriously? We miss the part of the cocky ass who at least had the courtesy to work for a smile, and dance around triumphantly when we gave it.
posted by tortaluga @ 2:30 PM
8 Comments:
Maybe that's why I seem to keep gravitating to men 10 years younger than I am...I don't have the patience for all overthinking crap and just want to enjoy the process!
No, it's because 30 something boys are very nearly ready to actually fall in love and settle down and this realization, quite frankly, scares the shit out of them (us... me). In our 20s, we just didn't give a shit. We knew we'd graduate from college, move to the next town, whatever, and if things weren't working out, that would be that.
You (and this is the plural you, mind you [singular], and not you specifically... and don't I remember some talk of 20 something boys being "on crack") just need to find the one who is right for you or give a little extra reassurance that you're fine with just making out like weasils in heat if that's all it turns out to be...
...but you know that.
And no, I'm not trying to get into any specific pair of pants. I'm split up from the singular, so I figured it was high time to express my love for the plural, of which, by the way, you [and this is the singular you again, in case that wasn't clear] happen to be one of the best.
So there.
Ok, points well taken. (Although for accuracy, we didn’t talk about boys being on crack so much as write it, on our apartment wall, in Christmas lights.)
And yet the reality many 30yo women I know keep encountering, and the one I’ve hit over and over in the past two years, goes something like this:
Actually falling in love with a girl = Way Too Scary
Making out like weasels with a girl who is cool enough that you might potentially end up, against your will, falling in love with her = Way Too Scary
Making out like weasels with a girl who is not cool enough that you might potentially end up, against your will, falling love with her = Not What You’re Looking For Anymore
So while I am clearly not pining away for 20something boys, I do miss their bravery, and the ensuing fun and possibility it allowed. Like I said, I’m glad you (plural) now give a shit. But that doesn’t mean you should stop doing scary things. Most worthwhile things are scary.
While i'm fast approaching that 30 mark, and my ovaries are quivering with their alternating every-other month opportunity to catapult an egg (from the diminishing supply) into the beckoning fingers of the fallopian tubes in the hopes of being united with an olympic swimmer, biologically I should be thinking 'lets make a nest'!
so, why are all these fabulous 30yo women on the sidelines while the sexy 30 something men are hiding?
There will be no nest making if there is no making out at all!
where did all the non-committal make-out sessions go?
Since when did men start rationing their endless supply of olympic swimmers?
I had an opportunity to get some input last night from "Stick Up His Ass" biology expert last night, who has some interesting social insights on the subject. men are feeling threatened by our evolutionarily recent ability to be more choosy. we now have birth control, we can be financially independent, and we can do whatever the hell we want. WE DO NO HAVE TO DEPEND ON MEN! so, with our seemingly attractive new found ability to choose, men are feeling the need to run away before we do...
but men, for your information. there will be no more sex, no more make out sessions, no more fabulous 30yo women if you keep running away!!!
David, I'm with J on this - her personal experiences mesh with mine. As I get closer to 40, I find that men in that decade are more likely to have lost the "scares the shit out of them" [assuming they've dealt with all their own baggage from past relationships too - which is a whole different topic].
But some larger-than-I'd-like number of them act like old farts, and there's no way I want to be making out like a weasel with a man who reminds me [in attitude] of my dad. That's just icky.
there is something to be said for synchronicity....and there is comfort in the fact that i'm far from alone in this quagmire...
exhibit A, my 10/8 post..
http://mysterydater.blogspot.com/2006/10/confusion-sets-in.html
cheers! ~j
I've certainly been guilty of overthinking things, but I like to think that I still lead with my heart.
But I don't think that the overthinking can be just pawned off on the men. Those of us who've made it to our 30s and are still single - male or female - all have some baggage with us. To me, the problem is that as you get older and have more experiences, you get a better idea of what you want, and can be more selective. However, with field of potential candidates narrowing as you get older, being too picky and too selective (or at least ixnaying certain possibilities out right) is the wrong strategy to be employing. It seems to me that, while still keeping standards and knowing what you want, as we get older, we all oughta work on keeping ourselves open to all possibilities.
But hell, what do I know?
The best years are the forties; after fifty a man begins to deteriorate, but in the forties he is at the maximum of his villainy.
H. L. Mencken
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