It is said that the definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over expecting different results.
That's my love life.
I don't know what makes me think that if I keep picking the same type of man—you know the type: the best-looking guy at the party, young, sexy, successful, never been married, has no children and makes no promises other than one night of hot, sweaty, freak-nasty, unbridled sex—that eventually I'll stumble across Mr. Right. That somehow, some way, one of these smooth-talking, pretty bastards will change his evil, womanizing ways and fall helplessly, hopelessly in love with me.
I tell myself that it's not that he's necessarily "commitment phobic" or "emotionally unavailable," or, let's face it, a complete a-hole, but that he just hasn't met the right woman yet. Someone who will match his flirtatious manner every step of the way. Someone so witty and confident and sexy in her own right that he couldn't help but throw caution to the wind and allow himself to experience all the wonders of true love. Someone like me.
The tricky part is that although I try to come across cool, aloof, mysterious and intriguing, all one has to do is scratch the surface ever so slightly to see that what I really am is scared, vulnerable, clingy and insecure. I keep up the charade for as long as possible, hoping that one day he will wake up next to me, see me sleeping peacefully and think, "Oh my God! I love this woman so much, she is the one!"
But, he won't, will he? No, of course not. Even I know that, but somehow I talk myself into believing that this time it will be different. But in the end, after I've shared my heart and my bed with him, he dumps me because men like him are only comfortable being in "relationships" until they get what they need. And no woman, not even charming, delightful me, can change them from being the skirt-chasing, noncommittal jerks that they promised to be to begin with. And somehow, time after time, I have the audacity to cry shamelessly and ask, "Why, oh why, does this always happen to me?"
Because of this self-destructive pattern, I finally decided to stop the madness. Let's face it: Even if I am truly bitter, angry, cynical and disheartened, there is this tiny part of me that still believes in finding my soul mate. Only now, after much trial and error, I've finally come to the conclusion that I may be past my sell-by date for the younger generation. That the only way I'm ever going to find my person is to try an untapped resource: the older man.
I'm talking about the 40-plus market. Men who are already established in their chosen fields; financially sound, stable individuals who are done skirt-chasing and bar-hopping and who are looking for a good, old-fashioned, grown-up relationship. If they happen to be divorced, so be it; if they have children of their own and are good, involved fathers, even better; that way they will understand where I am at at this point in my life.
So, how's it going, you ask? Well, let's see: First, there was B.J., who is 47, owns his own company and is divorced—twice. And has kids—four. After a less-than-mediocre date where he spent the entire evening eyeballing every twentysomething in the place, he walked me to the door and hugged me. Maybe he felt the vibe I was throwing down: Kiss me and you die. But here's the good part: As he is hugging me, his hands slide down my sides, where he stops at my love handles and pokes them with his index fingers no fewer than four times! Like I'm the Pillsbury freakin' Doughboy! "Did you just poke my fat?" I asked him.
He didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed, he just broke into this explanation about how his last girlfriend was 23 and didn't have love handles. I was appalled. I felt like telling him that I was a bit overwhelmed when he showed up at my front door—with man boobs! But I took the high road. I went in my house, tore up his card and cried my eyes out in a tub of Ben and Jerry's.
Next there was Ted, a 45-year-old transplant from Connecticut. An ex-techie, Ted, now retired, just purchased a new home on the Red Rock Country Club Golf Course. He was 6-3, with thinning brown hair, love handles of his own and a sweet, sincere demeanor.
It wasn't until our third date that I noticed that I was getting lost in everything he said. I don't mean that in a dreamy, hanging-on-to-every-word kind of way. No, I mean he was so incredibly dull that I just couldn't stay focused. He would launch into 45-minute dissertations on the advantages of coaxial cable, and I would be playing I Spy around the restaurant. Five dates deep and not only was I having a hard time keeping my eyes open, but every time he walked me to the door, he shook my hand.
And so on and so on and so on. It started to become very clear that older men are no better than younger ones, they just seem to have lost their fashion sense along the way.
And just when I was ready to throw in the fortysomething towel, there was Ian.
Ian is the sexiest man I've ever met. Every time his hand "accidentally" brushed against mine, it sent an electrical shock throughout my body. He is 44, tall, fit, tan, intelligent, athletic, adventurous and, oh, by the way, he's a yoga fanatic! He is a Scorpio, which, astrologically speaking, is my PERFECT match. He is a total people person and ... he had heartbreak written all over him.
After a delicious dinner at Spedini, where I hung on his every word, we went dancing at Plush, Summerlin's new hot spot. The club was alive with energy, but as far as we were concerned, we were the only people in the place as we slow-danced to the fast beat of a hip-hop song. As Ian held me in his arms and gently kissed the nape of my neck, one thought kept repeating in my mind: The definition of insanity is to repeat the same thing over and over again expecting different results. I am not insane. This time things are going to be different.