I married my “boy toy”, John. He’s not my first love, but I knew he would be my last.
We met late in your lives. He was in his early 40’s and I was crashing into my 50th birthday.
When you’re young & dating, you have the tendancy to blurt out all your past relationships…thinking you’re just opening up & sharing…trying to have a meaningful encounter with a new potential “love”. But if you take the time to go to the other side of the mirror, you’ll see someone making a damn good point why not to date them.
Both John & I had been on both sides of the mirror. Had all the so called “fun” in dating and were so tired. We did want to have companionship…friendship…whatever. No commitments…just a potential friend to go to concerts, movies, dinners out & talk & bitch about work, our bosses, and life in general.
In the process of not looking for “the One”, we found each other. After a few months, John proposed and of course I said yes with conditions. Though I looked pretty good, I was chronically ill. We talked at length about my health and what would potentially happen. My looks…my stamina…my heart would all be gone sooner than most. I told him I would marry him only after a year when he could think about the situation and see some of the deterioration.
After a year, I think I was more scared than I ever had been when my doctors first announced my prognosis. I thought John might decide to leave…but he stayed.
I know nothing of John’s past relationships and he only knows enough of mine to explain some of my weird behavior. For a short moment I once tried to figure out our marriage dynamics…the only thing I could come up with, was we try to help each other whenever we can…I clean the litter box because I know he hates to do it…he throws out the garbage without a fuss because I’m too weak to do it…I give him free access to the remote & try to make him laugh during the commercials when I know he’s had a hard day…and when I feel too ugly & fat, he caresses my cheek and kisses me just like on our first date.