A Fox (Ahem) Who Hates Lox

Photo by Joe Tighe

To all my regular readers of Letter From Elba, it probably comes as no news bulletin that I am currently single.  (Although one new reader just offered me his sincerest congratulations on my recent Adirondack nuptials.  Since that wedding was in 1997, and since the groom and I are now divorced, I have to give him points for effort and sincerity- but deduct them again for failure to pay attention to detail.)

But that glitch aside, I think that I have firmly established that I am seriously considering the dating game again.  I like men- divorce stats to the contrary- and I’m ready to take the “Would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday night?” plunge once more.

You’re all officially on notice.

NEW RULES:  If you’re a man and you get in touch with me for any reason, please state your marital status IMMEDIATELY.  Like in the first sentence of your email.

After all, you already know about me.  But before I waste one drop of electric ink being cute or charming or clever in my communications with you, I need to know if you are married.

Or gay.

Or married- and gay.

(If you are married and/or gay, I’m happy to hear from you.  I just don’t want to get the wrong idea about why you want to get in touch with me.)

Ok.  The ground rules have now been set.  On to our story…

A couple of years ago I went out to dinner with some friends at Chicago’s Luxbar.  Also joining us at Luxbar- a baby sibling of the more grown-up Gibsons- was a friend of theirs.

Let’s call her Linda.

Linda was a newly-initiated member of the “Gray Divorce” Brigade.  She had extricated herself from a twenty-plus-year marriage.  (Or she had been thrown over.  I didn’t know too many of her gory divorce details- nor did I want to.)

But she seemed to have come through the ordeal remarkably unscathed.  I did know that her settlement had left her free from financial worry, her (adult) kids didn’t blame her for the bust-up and she herself appeared happy enough about the sudden change her home life had taken.

Sidebar:  We were, after all, at Luxbar.  Not a shrink’s office, an EST seminar or a Dr. Phil workshop.  Waterboarding and/or lie detectors were in no way involved.  For the purposes of this post, let’s just suppose that what I heard that night was the truth as she believed it.

Linda was volubly holding forth, going on and on about her new, wonderful, man-free life. She simply loved her post-hubby lifestyle and was proselytizing on the joys of newfound spinsterhood.  I just listened.  Or tried to. Luxbar is noisy.

And then she said something that really made me sit up and take notice.

“Why would I ever get married again?  At our age, men are only looking for a nurse or a purse.”

Eeewwh!  WTF?!?  “A nurse or a purse?”  That had to be the most revolting description of mid-life romance I had ever heard.

It was so demeaning- dissing both sexes at the same time- to say nothing about the low self-esteem of the person who actually uttered it.

And she had said it so smugly, too.

I was completely turned off.

And so I happily turned my complete attention to the filet sliders (with the hot pink mayo) before me.  When the evening was over, I mercifully put her- and her egregious little catch phrase- out of my mind.  I never thought about either one of them again.

But like a bad penny, just the other day, that awful rhyme turned up again.

With a twist.

Another friend of mine, a widow, was commenting on her social life after the death of her spouse.

“I miss my husband,” she confided.  “But I’m okay.  And I don’t think that I would ever marry again.  One of my friends told me that at our age, all men are looking for a nurse with a purse.”

With a purse?  That ugly aphorism had just gotten worse.

Now the presumption was, that in order to attract a man, you had to be nurturing- expected to minister to him through his any-minute-now dotage- and you had to be financially well-endowed so that his upkeep would never fall on his or his children’s shoulders.

In other words, in order to get a date, a woman my age was now only as good as her credit rating and CPR ability.  And she was supposed to be only too happy to be used for these assets because that was the ante if she wanted back in the battle of the sexes game.

Again WTF?  What did this say about anyone who actually bought into this bilge?

I’m here to state for the record that I can date a man who doesn’t need (or want) a Florence Nightingale or Hetty Green.

He’d better not-  because I’m not that girl.

Here’s what I am:  Sometimes I’m terrific and sometimes I’m terrible.  Sometimes I’m adorable.  Sometimes I’m not so hot.  I’m extravagant, reliable, a good sport, frivolous, serious, prompt, impulsive, honest, reckless, brave, rebellious, loyal.

Here’s what I am not:  A nurse.  (No offense to the nurses out there.  It’s a noble calling- like the priesthood or teaching.  But I don’t have one drop of Clara Barton in me- unless you’re a dog.)

And as far as my purse is concerned, no guy of mine has ever helped himself to its contents.

So the next time I’m at Luxbar for dinner, I hope that I’ll be on a date.

I don’t know who he is yet, but I promise you this.  He won’t need a bed in a nursing home any time soon.

And he’ll be buying.

Filet sliders, anyone?

And don’t forget the hot pink mayo.

With loads of love from

(See post title.)