Therapist: So maybe you are feeling anxiety because deep down you know your relationship with Matthew is bound to end.
Me thinking: Can’t every relationship end?
Me: Because of the age difference?
Therapist: Yes.
Me: Well, sure. But if he were my age, I’d be worried it was too soon to be in a potentially long-term relationship.
And why can’t Matthew be a potential one? Men do it all the time.
Don’t be ridiculous, Tessa. This is going to end in heartbreak, likely yours.
Shut up. Just enjoy it. He’s wonderful and I am entitled to wonderful right now.
Entitled, Tessa? Really? How self-absorbed are you?
Right, right. Don’t be self-absorbed, right. World peace and all that. Go Obama Go.
Me: So I’d be anxiety-ridden either way.
Therapist: The anxiety would be different with a man your own age.
It would? My anxiety is not so highly evolved, it’s more of a plankton emotion; it just drifts as it pleases, spreading angst and nervousness everywhere it wanders.
Me: So I should end things with Matthew now because it might end one day?
With that logic, I should have dumped Adam after two months.
Me: I enjoy spending time with him. I don’t plan to date other men under 30, but seriously, I don’t get asked out by many men my age. And those men? Would not date.
Therapist: Why wouldn’t you date them?
Dead inside.
Me: Dead inside. These men were resigned to their broken dreams, as if there wasn’t plenty of time to find others. They couldn’t even spin a positive intro when I met them.
Sure, quit your failing music career and become an accountant. But be passionate about it. Or if your job is just a job, be passionate about your avocation, your hobby, your family—it’s all choices. If one dream dies, find another. If you’re in between, try to find passion in the journey. Resigned, at any age, is not attractive.
Yeah, a beer gut and the refuse-to admit-your-balding look not so attractive either.
Now Tessa, you don’t really think that. That would be shallow.
Okay. Sure, I don’t think that at all.
Therapist: With these men, maybe there is something under the surface.
I have to dig? How far? Who am I, Indiana Jones? I need to machete a path through a jungle, spelunk a cavern and dig through a crypt to find a man my age who is passionate about his life and where he’s headed?
With my luck, I am more likely to find an arrogant man who thought he could buy his way into a trendy eco-adventure. Totally out-of-shape and complaining about the lack of luxury services, he missteps, falls into a cenote and dies. What I’ll take home is a bad case of poison oak and a crusty skeleton.
Dreaming forward is the lifeblood of my community, my tribe, my life. It’s the bond that connects even the most disparate of people in my life.
My father is a retired judge. He doesn’t introduce himself as a former judge, letting a silent question hang in the air: who are you now? He embraces his new life and discusses his work as a mediator, he challenges himself with French now that he’s fluent in Italian. He dreams of playing better tennis, being more comfortable with working “freelance,” and traveling with his wife whom he still adores. He’s never resigned that his best years are behind him.
Jane is a good friend who spent years as a struggling actor. She is a dynamic public school teacher now. She never introduces herself as an actor who didn’t make it big; she is passionate about the courses she’s developed, the teens she’s taught, the choices she’s made. Truth is, she is already dreaming about the next era of her life post-retirement.
My college roommate is a stay-at-home mom. She embraces her “soccer-mom” life with gusto and doesn’t lament being tired or having taken a break from her career. She dreams forward still, thinking about getting her PhD, thinking about jobs she might want once her kids are grown.
A former student of mine wanted to be a save-the-world environmental attorney. Student loan debt and family obligations precluded that option. He works for a big firm in an area of law he would have scoffed at five years ago. But this isn’t how he introduces himself. He has embraced the intellectual nature of his work; he is energized by the power his firm wields. Plus, he mostly talks of fishing, his true passion.
None of these people are dead inside. In fact, they eat life! So in a previous post, I argued that I had no real checklist, but it seems I am wrong. Any man I date more than twice will have to evidence a zest for the life he’s chosen.
*
Maybe we all need to be better practiced in communicating our passions to new people in our lives. Let’s save the digging for something else. I’d like to dig for pirate treasure. Gold doubloons.
My friend Joy calls this kind of communication the thirty-second elevator pitch. Maybe I’ve been in Hollywood too long, but I’m thinking movie pitch: “These days, I’m really Terms of Endearment meets Saw IV.”
Me? Harold and Maude (“everyone has the right to make an ass out of themselves”) meets Fame (“I’m gonna live forever, I’m gonna learn how to fly”).
Maude: A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They’re just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.
*
Harold: You sure have a way with people.
Maude: Well, they’re my species!
Stay tuned. . .
PS. Dear readers, you might have noticed I am not posting as often. I don’t want to devolve into diary-like posts or have the writing suffer. I am also aware that my posts are longer than the customary 500-word entry. I serialize where I can, but sometimes I don’t want to break the flow. Thanks for reading them. To keep the quality as high as I can, I hope to post three times a week. Love, Tessa