Mature Women Only Need Apply

I am of the school of thought that women, like fine wine, improve with age. This is not to slight young women in any way, shape or form. They are splendiferous too, but not like they will be when they gain a few more years on the age-o-meter.

The reason I bring all of this up now, is not because I am looking for a companion, but because I will be at some point in the near future. I made huge strides today by listening to “On Call” by The Kings of Leon without bursting into tears, so I know that this bleak period of my life will eventually end.

Of course, I have humorously speculated on just exactly whom it is that would be interested in a 67-year-old man/hippie, who does not own a pair of shoes and drives off the mountain only when the dog chow finally runs out... 

My response to that speculation is that there is bound to be a women of mature age, who wishes to take a chance on a man who was married for almost forty years, and wants nothing more than to do it again.

By mature age I am talking at least sixty years young, or maybe a year or two younger than this. Older than sixty is not only acceptable, but commendable. I will be an equal-opportunity suitor, for women of a mature age. 

Love is the greatest power.

Exactly what is it that I am offering here?

I am offering this incredibly beautiful woman the opportunity to allow me to take her life to the highest level. How do I know this woman will be beautiful? I know because all women are beautiful, but the happy ones are the ones who positively glow. Nothing makes a woman glow like being loved properly by a man who knows how to do so.

I am not talking about love between the sheets; I am talking about love in real life. One of the most valuable commodities a person can possess is the ability to go through life in a nonjudgmental way. It can be a most loving characteristic of all, this ability to allow someone to live her own life without being constantly criticized.

I wonder…

Is there a woman out there who likes having her coffee brought to her in bed in the morning? And likes having breakfast made for her?

Is there a woman who likes a man who handles the housework? Who does the dishes? Who mops the floors and scrubs the toilet? And who does the laundry?

Is there a woman out there who likes having more flowers brought in for her than there are vases? Who likes having the fires started in the cold mornings to warm up the house? Who likes a man who knows how to cook?

Is there a woman out there who likes chicken cacciatore? Shepherd’s pie? Quiche? Roasted veggies? Barbecued anything? Freshly baked pumpkin pies? Apple pies? 

Is there a woman out there who has been living by herself for longer than she cares to think about, who is tired of being by herself? Who wants to be loved and cared for like she has never imagined possible?

Is there a woman out there who wants to walk side-by-side with a man who respects women and who wants to demonstrate it? Who wants nothing more than the opportunity to prove himself to the woman of his dreams?

Only a woman of mature age, who fits the criteria of being by herself, and who wants to be loved as she has never imagined possible, can answer the above questions.

Not I. I loved one woman exclusively for almost forty years. I am not a man who has any interest-whatsoever-in other women, when I am in a committed relationship. I will demonstrate that with actions, not words. 

All I can do is ask the above questions, and then follow through on my promise to love my woman as she has never been loved before.

I Can Fly?

The response to my post about micro-dosing surprised me. Having never heard of the term prior to Monday of this week, it seems as though I was simply not in the loop. 

One does not get this medicine from Big Pharma...

“What is it?” asked one good friend so I explained that it was ingesting small (hence, micro) doses of psilocybin mushrooms, though other folks substitute different substances for the mushrooms. 

The idea is to infuse enough of the medicine into my system to make a difference on my life outlook, but not necessarily enough to make me feel like jumping off the roof of the house to prove I can fly.

Because I have done no research and have little experience, you can take or leave what I have to say. What I am experiencing with the loss of Annie is not depression, but sadness. I distinguish between the two because I have a mood spectrum disorder, what old-schoolers call being bipolar II.

In my case I am manic 99% of the time and depressed about 1%, and the depression component requires a trigger. Annie’s passing certainly falls under the category of a trigger, but I had seven-and-a-half years to prepare for that inevitability. No, I am not depressed these days but I am deeply saddened.

Having my grandson Little Man visit every day is the reason why I am not depressed. His innate curiosity, his sunny disposition and his vice-grip on my heart combine to erect an effective barrier to depression. But when he is not here, sadness abounds.

Life glows and glitters when this character is here.

That sadness is going to be with me until time grinds some of it down the hard way, one minute at a time. The micro-dosing softens some of that grind, allowing time to pass as though it were in the fast lane instead of crawling along on the shoulder of the highway. Some days time seemed stalled along this highway of life, but stalled is not stopped, so the days, they pass.

I no longer see a murky abyss, blocking forward progress to the future. My marriage, my partnership with Annie, was so beautiful and so profoundly essential to my happiness, that I will undoubtedly try to recapture what I can of that experience.

The logistics of being able to reorganize my life, to allow me more access to what is out there in this world, seem overwhelming. That being said, love is the greatest power in existence, so pursuing it should lend wings to my sandals.

Would that it were so easy, but nothing in life that is easy, is worth much of anything. No, this will not be easy, but the harder it is (she said) the better it will turn out to be.

Who am I to argue with that logic?

For the Birds

Dear Annie, 

Well, you are not lying beside me, so I will make the rash assumption that you are either in Willits or Sacratomato, doing more tests. This being here at home without you, is for the birds, but I do understand and support you one hundred percent, as I have since this whole nasty bit of business began.

As strange as it may seem, February was as dry as July normally is. Though it is beautiful outside, and we have amazing veggies coming in like gangbusters, we are all nervous about the lack of rain. The pond is long filled, of course, but it just ain’t natural, gal darn it!

I had Little Man over this morning for a couple/three hours. I rarely consult the clock. He knocked my socks off, as usual. You know what the little dude did? He took a dirty tee shirt of mine and put it on the floor in front of your glass case, in case he dropped one of the glass figures.

Note the mini-water goblet,
just like mine...

I mean, I do that for him every day, but today, he managed to get down there while I was whipping him up some breakfast, and put the shirt there himself. It’s just one of those insignificant events in the life of a small boy, but to see him take precautions as a less-than-two-year-old-kid, to keep from breaking something, warms the cockles of my heart.

Miraculously I did a quick shopping trip yesterday, as SmallBoy said he was going after groceries, and did I want to come too? I tried to weasel out of it by saying it was too late (lunchtime) but I couldn’t even convince myself.

“Fine, but I’d rather go get drunk at Boomer’s instead.”

“We’ll do both,” he said agreeably.

The funny thing is, with all of those groceries just put away, I ended up cooking up a whole passel of fresh veggies that your oldest son, HeadSodBuster brought for me this morning. There were onions, bok choi, arugula, broccoli, Brussels sprouts (!), carrots, and leeks to go with the romanesquo I had from the other day.

I sautéed it all in chicken broth which I made the day I cooked up the chicken teriyaki, and added some balsamic vinegar and some Tamari sauce. Speaking of that teriyaki chicken, you would have been proud of me, substituting honey for sugar, so that Little Man could eat the teriyaki part of the show. Sugar does not treat that boy very well at all. I don’t even give him homemade catsup because of the sugar, which is OK because he prefers the homemade hot sauce anyway.

So yeah, the time is dragging big time these days, with you off the mountain again. I am keeping the house immaculate, which is not hard to do, so that when  you return you will be dazzled. I am working jigsaw puzzles still, hoping this pesky shoulder heals up. I did that when I completed the second part of the deck, but it’s all good because there will be no need for me to go under that knife again. 

I know these letters are not terribly exciting, but you did say you looked forward to them, and it makes me feel good to write you. I will also send another pic of the Little Man, so you can keep up with his progress. 

I will say this, at least writing you makes me appreciate what I have. I can’t imagine what life would be without you, my love. 

I love you,

Markie

PS: Hurry home so I can cook you up a storm, OK Annie? 

Annie?