I remember when I first met my husband. Our age difference was all kinds of weird for other people. His family didn’t get it. Some older women in my family said, “It’s totally unfair that he’s dating you. He’s our age. Who am I supposed to date?”
Like I give a shit.
I also heard, “He’s going to make you a young widow. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about. The pool of available men thins out when you’re over 40.”
Great. Thanks for being supportive.
But for the most part, age is no big deal in our relationship. In fact, Ken helped me grow up. I learned how to buy homes, buy cars, and live a normal life. And I keep my husband young. We do fun things together and generally try to enjoy life. And while there are superficial differences — I don’t like Led Zepplin and he doesn’t like Green Day — there are worse things in the world.
Would I recommend such a huge age difference for other (& less awesome) people? People who want a normal life in the suburbs with kids? I don’t know. While we have the same values on the most important issues, our age difference can be a pain in the butt. When I met Ken, I was young and relied upon him to be a father-figure. (The stereotype is true, by the way.) I often have to remind Ken that I’m not a 23 year-old girl who can’t balance a checkbook. No wait — who am I kidding? — I still can’t balance a checkbook. But I don’t need him to be a dad and give me a life lesson. I just need him to do some math.
And sometimes I have to be reminded that I’m thirty-six and I should really learn how to do math.
Anyway, the ‘May December Romance’ is alive and well in our household. I know lots of people just like me who married older — it’s no big thang. And Ken is in better physical shape than I am, so I don’t worry about being a young widow. I’m the one who likes geriatric enchiladas, anyway.