Beasts of Burden

There was a time when romance required very little infrastructure. At twenty-three, you could meet somebody at a party, stay out until two in the morning, eat something from a food truck whose health inspection certificate appeared to have been printed during the Carter administration, and then fall asleep on a couch containing three failed springs and a decorative pillow shaped like a beer can. You woke up six hours later feeling terrific, and went to work without showering.

At fifty-three, you can sleep nine hours on a $2,400 orthopedic mattress and wake up because apparently you injured your neck during a dream. Nobody tells you this. They call them the 'Golden Years', which strongly suggests they are the most beautiful, shiny, and coveted years of your existence. And yet, I can't help but wonder if someone invented the phrase while their knees still had the factory-installed cartilage?

Getting older isn’t necessarily bad... In many ways, it’s wonderful. You know yourself better. You’re generally more comfortable with who you are. You stop worrying about impressing everyone. Unfortunately, you also become extraordinarily particular about medication and fans.

Ask anybody over fifty! A younger person enters the bedroom: “Why is the fan on? The air conditioning is already on.”

The older person looks at them:
“The fan is background noise.”

Young Tyler: “But the room is already cold.”

Elder: “I’m not using it because I’m hot.”

Tyler: “Then why do you need the fan?”

Elder: “Because I have tinnitus.”

Tyler: “Oh, you are having a hard time breathing?”

Elder: "Not bronchitis, TINNITUS! Without the fan, all I hear is EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

There is a lengthy pause. And then Tyler replies:
“So, you hear that all the time?”

Elder: “Since approximately 2003.”

Tyler: “Doesn’t it bother you?”

Elder: “WHAT DO YOU THINK THE FAN IS FOR, TYLER?”

The fan isn’t an appliance anymore. It’s medical infrastructure. In fact, if the fan suddenly shuts off at 2:43 in the morning, anyone over fifty wakes up instantly. Not because they heard something. Because they heard nothing. Eyes open. Why did the fan stop? Power failure? Breaker? Fan motor? Russian cyberattack? And then, emerging triumphantly from the silence:
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Well. We’re awake now...

Meanwhile, Tyler is asleep in the next room with his television playing, phone underneath his face, one shoe on, fitted sheet completely detached from the mattress and a Taco Bell wrapper adhered to his shoulder. He’ll sleep until eleven.

Romance Has Changed

Dating after fifty isn’t worse than dating when you’re young. It’s simply become a merger involving two established corporations.

At twenty-five: “Do you believe in soulmates?” "What sign are you?"

Things tend to be a little more lackluster as you age.

At fifty-five: “Do any of your adult children currently live with you?”

Potential Date: “One, temporarily.”

You: “Define temporarily...”

Young dating profiles contain phrases like:
Adventurous free spirit! Love spontaneous road trips, concerts, dancing until sunrise and seeing where life takes me!

Older dating profiles should really just get to the point:
Homeowner. Central air. Good water pressure. Children live elsewhere. Colonoscopy current. Two bathrooms, no waiting...

SUPER LIKE!

At twenty-five, your friend tells you:
“She’s gorgeous.”
You ask: “What’s she like?”
He says: “Who cares?”

At fifty-five:
“She’s gorgeous.”
“What’s she like?”
“Keeps the thermostat at 68 and her dental insurance is current.”

You grab him by both shoulders.
“DON’T SCREW THIS UP!”

Romance hasn’t died. We’ve simply recalibrated sexy. Flowers are still lovely. Chocolate is nice. But nothing says I desire you quite like:
“I noticed your HVAC filter was dirty, so I changed it.”
You thinking, 'oh... my... Lord...That is sexy'...

They continue with “I also checked your tire pressure.”...
Your immediate response: "STOP. I HAVE NEIGHBORS." (cue giddy laughter)

The old romantic question used to be:
“Your place or mine?”

Now it’s:
“Your place or mine?”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
“Adjustable bed.”
...
“Hhmmm... Go on.”

And God help you if somebody has a guest bathroom.

“You mean...we don’t have to share?”
“No.”
Barry White begins playing from somewhere in the heavens.

Sleep Now Requires Preflight Clearance

When you’re twenty:
“I’m tired.”
UNCONSCIOUS... That’s the entire procedure.

After fifty, going to bed resembles preparing Apollo 11 for lunar insertion.

Fan? Medium.
Thermostat? Sixty-nine.
Pillows? One firm, one medium, one mysterious smaller pillow purchased specifically because something happened to your shoulder in March.
Water? Nightstand.
Phone? Charging.
Blinds? Closed.
Bathroom? Visited.
Reflux situation? Contained.
Blanket? Correct weight.
One foot outside blanket? Deployed for precision thermal regulation.

You finally get comfortable. Perfect. Eyes close.

...

...

Did I lock the back door?

DAMMIT!

Now you’re up again. And getting out of bed isn’t silent anymore.

At twenty, your body simply rises. After fifty:
“HNNNNNGH - uhhhh - AH. Okay...I got this.”

Nothing happened. Nobody stabbed you. You stood up. Your body now provides its own Foley department.

Sit down: Oof.
Stand up: Ugh.
Bend over: Huunnn.

Drop something on the floor: You stare at it. The object stares back. There is now a calculation.

How badly do I need that?
If it’s a receipt? It lives there now.
If it’s your glasses? All right. We’re going down. But we’re picking up everything else while we’re there because we’re not making this trip twice.

The Body Has Entered Its Loose-Fit Era

This is another charming development. Young people wear baggy pants because it’s fashionable. Older people wear baggy pants because eventually everything becomes baggy. Your trousers get looser. Your skin gets looser. Your neck begins exploring opportunities in adjacent zip codes.

Meanwhile, hair starts abandoning places where you desperately want it and establishing colonies in places where it absolutely wasn't invited!

Your scalp says:
“Business is down.”
Your ears respond:
“WE’RE HIRING.”

One morning you discover an eyebrow hair approximately six inches long. Where did this come from? Was it there yesterday? Did it grow overnight? Is it load-bearing? You’re afraid to cut it because at this point it may be holding your face together.

Spontaneity Now Requires Reservations

Young couple:
“Let’s take off this weekend!”
“YES!”
They’re in the car twelve minutes later.

Older couple:
“Let’s take off this weekend!”
“Absolutely. Where?”
“I don’t know. Let’s be spontaneous.”
“Okay. What mattresses does the hotel use?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does the room have a mini-fridge?”
“Probably.”
“Probably isn’t yes.”
“We haven’t even picked a hotel.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Can we just GO?”
“Not until I know what time breakfast ends.”

This isn’t a lack of adventure. It’s experience. When you’re young, your body forgives terrible planning. After fifty, your body becomes a vindictive attorney.

“So, according to my records, you slept four hours Saturday night on a pullout sofa.”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. We’ll be seeking damages through Wednesday...”

And Yet...

Here’s the funniest part. Somewhere along the way, all these ridiculous requirements become strangely wonderful. You don’t need the nightclub. You don’t need to stay out until two. You don’t need to impress anybody with how adventurous you are. Sometimes romance is two people sitting in the same room for two hours without either one feeling obligated to speak. She’s reading. He’s watching television. Dog’s asleep. A/C is holding steady at 69. Fan is humming beautifully. Nobody needs anything. Nobody is asking where the relationship is going. Nobody changed the thermostat. That isn’t boredom. After fifty? That’s premium intimacy!

So perhaps the Golden Years really are golden. They’re just slightly baggier than advertised. And noisier when standing up. And apparently require three pillows, comfortable shoes, reliable plumbing, and at least one functioning oscillating fan. But that’s okay. We’ve earned it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, something fell behind the couch. I haven’t decided yet whether I need it badly enough to retrieve it. I’ll know after my nap.

Assuming, of course… nobody turns off the damn fan...