By Guest Blogger Amy Larson
It feels like just yesterday I was wearing big hair, jelly shoes and bracelets, rolled sleeves on my jacket, and running around with boys that turned up their collars and wore football jerseys in town on the weekends. How did I wind up sitting at a Mexican restaurant next to a mature gentleman with touches of silver around his temples, on my first date in NINETEEN years? It was beyond bizarre.
No dreaming of a white dress and a huge wedding; I’ve already done that and so has he. Neither are wondering what a child would look like if we had one together; our child-bearing eras are over. He’s not sweaty and nervous when he kisses me or asks me on a date; anyone single and older than forty generally knows what they’re doing. Not only has he asked hundreds of women out in his lifetime, he’s also popped the question a time or two. While I had once dated boys, dating an actual ‘older’ man, one with a deep voice and the ability to grow a full beard is both thrilling and strange. This guy has a job, a mortgage, ex-wives, grown children and even a grandchild. What am I doing?
As a dating-happy teen, I could just grab my (Guess) bag and run out the door. At age forty and divorced, it’s getting home from work exhausted and bewildered at the mess early-morning dashers left behind, then rides to sports practices and slapping dinner on the table before I can even think about that night’s wardrobe or what I’m going to do with my hair.
