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“What I don’t understand is why, when the guy is older, it’s hot, but heaven fucking forbid when the woman’s older, it’s weird.” Molly, the neighborhood’s self-appointed ambassador, PTO president, and the head of the HOA and our friend group, flips her long blonde hair over a bronzed shoulder.
She pointedly stares in the direction of a few fathers nearby helping their children with their floaties, shirts off, and dad bods glistening. Only a few yards away from them, lying sprawled out over the loungers, are a group of women in their very early twenties, not-so subtly watching them.
It’s opening day in the West Port private neighborhood pool, and with the number of people, it’s as if the majority of everyone is here. The younger women aren’t super familiar to me, though, so they’re either older siblings or nannies, and I must say, they definitely aren’t bashful with their admiration of the older men.
“It’s the salt and pepper hair,” another mom and my neighbor, Gennie, points out. “It makes them look distinguished and wise, while for us, we just look old.”
I huff to myself, watching my daughter as she dips a single bubblegum pink toe in the shallow end of the pool, testing the temperature.
Thirty-three is hardly old by anyone other than a six-year-old’s guidelines, but I get what they’re saying. It’s a double standard.
It’s also a flat-out lie.
My ex-husband was neither distinguished nor wise, and I blame tequila for me thinking either of those things was true.
I also blame Gennie too, actually. After getting a well-deserved and hard-fought raise at the financial advising company I work for, shehadto take me out to celebrate.
I won’t lie; working sixty-plus hours a week and having an unhealthy addiction toDancing with the Stars, I didn’t have that much time left over to go out. Or date. Or think of anything other than how I could climb my way up the ladder of success. So that time, when she begged with those big puppy dog eyes, I agreed. I needed the reprieve.
We met Sam about twenty minutes after we got there. He bought us every drink we ordered, took me on the dance floor, and let me talk his ear off about all the shit I had to go through to be there celebrating.
He’s fifteen years my senior and had all the stereotypes associated with older men. He had the salt and pepper going, financial stability and maturity. I was completely enamored.
And utterly wasted.
When I found out I was pregnant a couple of weeks later, he was down on one knee. It was unreal, and almost everyone—both his family and mine—knew how incredibly stupid it was, but they all supported us. They wanted us to work, and with our little girl on the way, so did we.
We tried.
Itried.
Turns out, being with a forty-year-old doesn’t really come with any kind of extra benefits. Like myself, Sam was a workaholic, spending more time at the office than at home, and had certain quirks about himself I didn’t care for but weren’t complete dealbreakers.
Of course, as time passed, though, I also learned he was arrogant, disinterested, and getting with someone younger was very purposeful on his part.
Turns out, I was simply a conquest during his midlife crisis.
His internal crusade to prove that even as an older man, he could still appeal to younger women. That he still “had it.” I was nothing but a grand feat, and after the glamor of his victory wore off, so did his need to keep me around. Daughter and all.
Luckily, I’d bought our house the week after my promotion, so the split—particularly regarding affairs and custody—was way easier than I thought it’d be.
Sam’s been an okay dad, just not really present, which is why I had to triple-check with him when I booked a stay at a popular bed and breakfast right outside the city.
They’re running a Mother’s Day special this entire weekend, and since Lyn is staying with my parents tomorrow so I can catch up on work, I decided to have a little staycation to pamper myself today.
A massage, a mani-pedi, some adult drinks with no risk of pregnancy—though my IUD wouldn’t allow it anyway—and some undisturbed sleep, are all calling my name.
But naturally, the mom guilt settled in, and I knew I had to do something with Lyn. Luckily, Molly stopped me in the car rider line Friday morning and told me I should meet her at the opening day of the neighborhood pool, and just like that, I felt a little less crappy.
My eyes flash over to the PTO president, who is taking an abnormally long swig of her water out of her Stanley cup, still eyeing the girls suspiciously. “I should go over there and spoil it for them.”
One of the funnier and older women in the group, Wanda, nods her head, her red curls bouncing wildly behind her. “Oh yeah. Tell them they only have a solid ten years before the guy’s balls shrivel up, and they shoot dust when they come.”
My eyes widen, and I instinctively glance around for little ears who may have heard. “Wanda.”
Wanda shrugs, biting the plastic edge of a popsicle wrapper before tearing it off. “Tell me, where’s the lie?”
“I can’t find one.” Gennie laughs, holding out a hand for one of Wanda’s margarita-sicles. “Not to mention, their stamina plummets.”
