The older woman, the younger man
By Chit Roces
Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 00:50:00 09/07/2008
MANILA, Philippines - Though friends assure me he looks older—his silky mop of hair is salt-and-pepper, while my dyed pixie crown remains medium-brown in the shade—the truth is, I am older.
At any rate, it has never bothered us. In the absence of any legal or church-sanctified vows for the first two decades, we made up our own rules as we went along.
We began with a simple one, which has become harder and harder to live by: He must never, but never, weigh less than I do.
I don’t exactly come from a chubby line, but with my advancing years and slowing metabolism, weight is effortlessly gained.
For him, genes that have produced a lean line and been helped by sports (particularly tennis) make for a decided advantage.
At the moment, the rule has been satisfied: He is about 10 lbs heavier. But until he was in his early 50s, and still smoking, he tipped at 128 lbs.
Knockout dedication
I have good genes myself—which guaranteed longevity that, perhaps, we could count on being able to dodder together in old age.
That was, in fact, the courting line he gave me, along with a book of poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, one of my favorite poets, on which he wrote a knockout dedication.
We lived together as soon as we legally could and began working out our character, temperament, social and cultural differences, which were a handful, at close quarters and a day at a time.
I don’t really remember any rows owing to age difference, unless it has to do with sleeping habits. I’m a morning person, out of bed and rarin’ to go at sunrise, and naturally set for bed in the early evening. Thus, I abandon him in the living room watching sports on TV or in his workroom, and leave him in bed the next morning. We also both agree that snoring is bad form.
It must be a question of temperament rather than age. Anyway, sleeping habits are no big deal, and they don’t take away a bit from the older woman’s natural advantage.
She has resolved most of her hang-ups. She is more comfortable with her sexuality in her postmenopausal state. She has acquired most of her dream possessions, or come to terms with the lack of them. She has traveled to most places she had to see at least once.
Her children are grown and independent and have given her grandchildren, her immortality thus assured. With a fair passive income, she wants not.
Same situation
I have friends in the same situation. A few of them beat my six-year seniority over my man.
Cielo, a classmate, is 12 years older than her husband, who not only has come to treat her five children from her first marriage as his own but even welcomes her first husband’s visits. You guessed it, he is a foreigner.
Enya, a classmate we had given up to spinsterhood despite her slim good looks and talent for singing and dancing, takes the cake. At 50, she finally met her man when she joined the church choir of her parish on Long Island, New York. He was the choirmaster, only 32 and Filipino.
As she was telling us her story at our golden jubilee a few years ago, I saw pictures of her in my mind in her debutante’s gown, dancing with her dad, and of her infant husband in his christening gown cradled in his mother’s arms.
What I conjured up for myself was far benign—I in my Maryknoll gala uniform at my graduation from Grade 6; my husband in short pants just entering Grade 1.
Other happy endings
I can think of more such happy pairings. One of the happiest, in fact, comes from my own family.
Tito Peping, now 85, a dead ringer for Marcello Mastroianni in his prime, was 19 to Tita Carmen’s 31 when they got together. She brought to the relationship three children from her first marriage, and would beget five more by him.
It was a relationship as controversial as could be and seemed headed for disaster. But they were so moony over one another it was almost corny.
The first time they were separated from each other—she had to be with a daughter who had given birth in the States—Tito Peping sang “Bluer than Blue” to her on the phone until she came back home.
Tita Carmen passed away a decade ago. At a recent family gathering, as I was getting food from the buffet for my mother, Tito Peping held my arm and said seeing me serve my mother reminded him of Tita Carmen: After marrying her, he never had to serve himself.
At our age, exit time is bound now and then to come to mind. Studies show women live longer, and we reckon our six-year gap evens things out and makes us a perfect match.
Just the other night, I caught Jane Fonda on Larry King—she’s exactly my age—and I got my affirmation. She was speaking about her current relationship, with a fortunate younger man, I thought, for she looked fit and radiant, and certainly younger than our age.
Obliging the worldwide audience on the question it no doubt wanted to ask, she leaned forward in a gesture of theatrical intimacy and said in a stage whisper: “It gets better!”
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