“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”
~ Marilyn Monroe
Relationships are hard. The battle of the sexes is never won: both sides have their pros and cons.
It’s easy to be alone.
Living in the mirage of a politically correct culture, I often wonder why it’s still acceptable to be ageist. God forbid anyone dare criticize me for being engaged to a terrorist-bomber-looking-Arab-brown man, but somehow it’s okay to blabber insults freely, in some Diet Coke commentary, from a closed-minded vending machine about our age difference.
Condescending remarks about my “Boy Toy” are not only disrespectful, ill-mannered and rude, but land as though you’re a socially-retarded idiot—as though some Ozarkian, inbred Hick-Billy just looked me calmly in the eye and, without a blink, asked how my Sand-Nigger is.
Sample quote from ex-friend:
“So about your guy…are you planning on leaving your children and chasing this young man around? Are you planning on taking drugs to extend your fertility to give him children and family? It’s pretty selfish! Stealing a young man’s life simply to feed you ego and because men your own age won’t put up with your shit because they’ve been around long enough and are looking for a woman with her shit together. Grow the fuck up and let that young man go get a proper wife that can give him children.”
And just when we thought gay marriage was finally cool, interracial relationships were the status quo and a younger woman with an old rich man is vanilla-cliché-generic, the tables are turned. Such discrimination and judgment should truly be reexamined for what it is: ageism.
It’s time to wake up.
No excuses, no apologies, no justifications pass my lips when deciding who to choose for a partner or who to spend time with.
Just like the “Same Love” Macklemore song:
“No freedom ‘til we’re all equal.”
Recap: At first, he chose me. Every day since we both choose love.
At the end of the day, all what matters is, I’m in his arms in the dark cloak of night, in love with the invisible him. His essence is ageless, genderless and colorless, absent of socio-economic class or caste system. Our bank accounts, homes, cars, career—all mean jack shit with the lights and outer world shut down and the only experience is of the heart with fingers intertwined.
Hearts beat as one, melting into one another, merged into the sublime. This transcendental quintessence cannot be captured by camera, painting or novel. I live for this. He ignites me. Our passion and love is undeniable.
One could cut my Beloved open on an operating table, the parts of his physical body laid bare, and no surgeon could possibly pinpoint the parts I love. His soul, spirit, mind, sense of humor, life experience, wisdom, romantic nature, tough-as-fuck machismo and the smell of his hairy armpits is my oxytocin superglue.
I’m stuck to him like a pic comb in an afro. He makes my chakras spin like disco balls.
He’s all man. Rugged, tough, raw, loving, kind, generous, thoughtful, intelligent, wise, fun, spirited—I could go on. He can solve any problem, gives the best advice and is able to fix anything with his bare hands. This is unchangeable at the core, whether he’s healthy, in a wheelchair or on a gurney.
Most importantly, he calls me on my shit, frequently—and he doesn’t let me walk away. We make each other want to be better people. As one of the most enlightened people I know, despite how infrequently he practices yoga, or how rarely he reads spiritual books.
Yet, he’s fought and survived wars, has defended this country and saved countless lives. He’s pulled his friends from burning vehicles and witnessed multiple deaths, traveled to more countries than anyone I know, and at only 26—never mind 100—revolutions of the sun.
He has brought me thankfulness, beyond the comfort of decent food and a cozy bed; never mind a pimped-out whip, McMansion or easy life we all securely enjoy and take for granted because of his sacrifice.
Reciprocally, he loves my immaturity, my sass, my playful nature, my creativity, my present moment and my 50 shades of vulnerable. He knows I’m bat-shit crazy and dark-side bitch, yet loves me just the same. My sags, my wrinkles, my flaws are all adored and revered, as is my mind, my heart and my spirit, my life experience and my wisdom. He says I speak with the knowledge of a 90 year old with the voice of someone who is 20. Women his age bore him.
He chooses me. I always choose him. We choose and anchor each other regardless of age.
Yet, it seems as though age is the last of acceptable discrimination in our culture.
Tonight many of you will go to bed with someone you detest or are indifferent to, attracted only to their money, physical looks or social status. Or you fall asleep, miserable and alone.
I’m happy to say I’ll be blissing out to the heartbeat of the One I love deeply and to whom my heart is devoted. The Para-trooping soldier-marine who I call mine, whatever our ages. However long it lasts or doesn’t: the present moment is all we have, so I choose wisely.
“As a body in a world, here is our choice: we can be more loving or less loving. That’s it. We can relax as the entire moment’s show of love’s swirl, feeling open as all—a vicious rainstorm, tweeting birds, our lover’s lips, a sense of worthlessness—or we can close to some aspect of experience, pulling away as if we were separate.”
~ David Deida
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