Inside the apartment I foolishly grabbed the candle holders in an attempt to carry them to the kitchen sink, royally burning both hands and an arm with boiling wax. Could there have been a clearer signal that I was messing around with a bad idea?
After he left that night, I swallowed a double dose of Advil and smeared burn cream on my hands and arm. The next day I bought proper supplies at a pharmacy and gave my injuries proper treatment.
A week later, William asked me out on a real date. I decided to go for the "fun" of it, to step into a night out as I might try on a new pair of shoes. Just this one time we'll go to a nice restaurant, eat well, drink wine, and then I'll be clear to him about our lack of a future together. William's wit may have been as dry as James Bond's martinis, but this was not going any further.
Why? The slick escarpment blocking my way was the age thing. William was younger than me. And not just a little younger, but a lot younger, and that could not be changed or reasonably joked about. I was in big trouble. I knew his age because I'd asked him. He didn't know mine because he had the good grace not to ask. This age difference carried more weight than any issues of commitment or my adaptation to life alone or the quivers I felt when he brushed against me or the way he made me laugh or those kisses or anything I could come up with.
This was serious business. This was a first for me and I didn't like it one bit. Society had come up with a feline epithet for women like me. Years later, television producers would develop a high-larious sitcom named for women like me. The age difference thing gave rise to a sour taste in my mouth and I couldn't speak of it.
Except to my hairdresser.
As Peter snipped my hair, I sighed. When he asked about the film and my life, I sighed and then had an outburst. Peter was being polite, not avid, in his queries, and didn't expect the sudden outpouring of angst I spilled all over my salon robe. He stopped clipping, held his scissors aloft, looked at me in the mirror and listened. At the end of my gushing, Peter tilted his head, our eyes met, and he said, I think this is the last social taboo.
He might have been right about that, but I didn't want to be on the edge of new frontiers. I didn't want to be another Oprah subject or some crappy movie of the week. It didn't matter to me that Jack or Warren or Hugh or any other older guys didn't get called a disparaging name for their love affairs. Of course, it's unfair and even misogynistic, but I wasn't the least bit interested in the politics of the situation. It made me feel crappy and sad. I didn't want to be a social taboo. It had to end and that was all there was to it.
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