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May/September blues
Some of our seniors are giving up -- Larry King,
Regis Philbin. Others are marrying down. Many a gent when he
hits Operation Serutan, when to him farina is a spicy dish, when his nightcap is
prune juice on the rocks, when his Social Security number is 2, when a pregnant
woman offers him her seat on a bus -- shops for a young toy. A wife. A mistress.
A reasonable facsimile. A Do-It-Yourself kit.
FIRST wives, now ex-wives, humph that men have become obsolete. No. We need
them for certain things.
Like lifting a sick Great Dane into your SUV. Like zipping the back of a
dress designed by some double-jointed woman-hater.
Immediately after the human at the movies' box office asks, "Want our
discount senior citizen ticket?" these types go ape.
A) They instantly buy Grecian Formula. Economy size.
B) Go to the gym, diet, hit bars, invest in Tic Tacs, order toupees so crappy
that party guests want to roll up your head.
C) Finally it's a lawyer. A type who'll keep the matrimonial case alive
pending a new trial on the grounds his client just dug up more money that the
lawyer didn't know he had.
THE man wants a divorce. He's got an expensive lawyer. All the discarded
woman can do is tell the judge: "You heard my side of the story. Now let me tell
you his."
He is now into dumping the wife he once adored and romanced in a rumble seat
and whom he had to tenderly care for when her thighs got dislocated moving the
stick shift out of the way. This he no longer remembers.
THIS is a lady to whom the best years of her life are now between 49 and 50.
This he remembers but no longer cares. She's out!
We're talking an antique dude who, although he still keeps his autographed
photo from Jefferson's inaugural, he has love in his heart even if it doesn't
work anyplace else.
The knees ache, ankles wobbly, fingers swell, teeth loose, face lined, hip
replaced, hands are dry, stomach's a problem, eyes don't see, ears don't hear,
feet don't walk, an outing to him is seeing his doctor, an EKG to him is a
contact sport, blood pressure's not great, heartburn's more frequent than
heartache -- but he keeps hunting The One.
His "I love you" would come out in a wheeze, yet still he's RSVPing Sweet 16
parties. He's looking.
May the world recall Robin Williams, who shed a wife to
marry their nanny then subsequently shed that newest wife. Nothing really wrong
with that unless, of course, you're either Mrs. Williams No. 1 or even Mrs.
Williams No. 2.
LAST week we discussed cougars. In Manhattan's asphalt jungle, a cougar's a
fierce animal with mileage. Been around. Knows ways to Do It even Katy
Perry and Russell Brand haven't tried.
Civilization makes sport of cougars. Networks make shows about cougars. Why?
It's OK to poke grannies whose implants bite fresh young flesh yet we accept
geezers with dentures who gum 25-ish beauties? Busted broke 25-ish beauties.
THIS is a category of men so senior that if they paid a hooker for sex,
they'd get a refund. If they bent down to tie a shoe, they'd try to think of
other things to do while down there. My friend Ernest Borgnine says: "I took my dog for a walk but suddenly couldn't keep up with him. So I
swapped him for a turtle."
We go out with these guys and their teenage dates but rarely do dinner with
the cougars and those they've cougared. The reason? Possibly because the old
guys can pick up a check. Those cougared have no money. The woman has to pay or
she slips the kid a few. Either way, not classy.
A producer cheating on his wife of 20 years told me, "It's necessary. You
need that rush when you're having an affair. The workday is so pressured and
tough that you can't get through without that release."
This hotshot man then got fired. Now not so rich or important. Now not
feeling so spiffy. Now who's he run to? The missus. She'll erupt every once in
awhile just like Old Faithful, but she's there. There with the liniment, the
pills, the chicken soup, the second bedroom so he can sleep.
WHAT would he get with his teenage trophy? Justin Bieber tunes? Gua camole pancakes? They'll spend an evening doing her homework?
And after a few years, what then after she tires of his coughing and
groaning? She'll prowl and, being a CIT, cougar-in-training, find herself a
hungry cub to feed.
She'll divorce the geezer and put the new one through medical school. And
what then? He'll become a hotshot plastic surgeon. He'll make big money. He
doesn't need her now. He already did her face, which has fallen and she doesn't
look so good and he isn't going to lift it again because she isn't going to pay.
So now it's his turn.
He'll be out getting the toupee and the Grecian Formula and the Viagra and
the hot chick -- and the musical chairs will move all over
again.
