Empty Nest

The male at mid-life begins to look forward to "the empty nest"--which is that moment in time when the last child leaves home and the cat is buried.  Naturally, the older male has mixed feelings about this new phase of life, but generally these feelings are tempered by extremes that could best be described as "elation", "gratification" and "phosphorescent joy".

Once the nest is empty, of course, the older male dreams of filling his time with new hobbies such as sex, rest, and sex.  These hobbies have, of course, been difficult to achieve during the twenty-three year supervision of children and the teenage inquires at the bedroom door such as, "Can you tone it down?" or "What's all the ruckus about?" or "What are you two doing in there?!"

The older male feels a sense of relief when the empty nest is finally achieved, and he realizes that he only has a few good months remaining in his life.  He will soon be dead, which is the same as being a eunuch, and he wants to get on with it post-haste.  Naturally, this fills him with a sense of urgency and, in the first few weeks of the empty nest period, he may go nuts.  Honeymoon nuts!  His wife will want to move out.

However, as the empty nest period progresses, the older male will settle into his usual boring self and his life will return to normalcy.  He will begin working long hours once again and his menopausal wife will remind him, from time to time, that they should at least check in with their grown children by phone.  The older male will, of course, ask, "What children?"

The wife will, at this point, produce photographs from her purse, weep for the lost ones, and ask, "Where did it all go?"

The male will point to his expanding waistline, clutch at the rumbling in his gut, and return to the kitchen to fix himself another bologna sandwich while his wife mourns.  Later, he will remind her that they are, in fact, alone in the house and that the cat is buried in the yard and that there is nothing to stop them from watching two hours of nude Jeopardy.  The male will also offer to remove his pants while he cooks dinner and will remind his wife that he is willing to perform a dance to any Josh Groban tune.

Later in the evening, after the older male and his wife have worked an additional six hours at home, they will realize that it is past midnight and they  must rise at five a.m.  They have come full circle and returned to their old habits.  They have both forgotten that the cat is dead.

And so they decide to sleep together in the empty nest.  But the only feathers are the ones inside their pillows.  And these are not getting ruffled. 



 

Recipe For Success

After the older male and his wife have surpassed the silver anniversary mark, there are many who begin asking, "What's your secret?"  These unsuspecting folks naturally make the assumption that there is a recipe for marital success and that, if followed, they could achieve such longevity as well.

This, of course, is a myth . . . much like Sasquatch or an effective Congress, and intelligent couples realize that longevity is produced only through proper nutrition and regular check-ups with the proctologist.  Furthermore, recipes for success do vary, with some long-standing couples living several states apart and conversing over Skype, while other successful couples live under the same roof and purchase sofas.

The manopausal male, however, always points to his wife as the secret of his success and mentions her often at poker games.  He will note that his wife can still dance and that, on certain occasions, she will also cook meatloaf.  These small affirmations are essential to a successful marriage, and as the male ages, he stuff his quiver full of them.

The wife, also, will follow suit and note that her husband is the same man she married decades before.  Sure, he may have lost most of his hair and his libido has slipped to the granny cog, but overall he's adequate.  He is walking erect most days and has not yet succumbed to an Advil addiction.  He still kisses her on anniversaries and weekends.

In essence, the successful marriage is built on waning eyesight and the inability of either spouse to inspect the package of goods they are currently living with.  The older mind plays tricks on reality, and the most successful couples believe that they are living on the set of Leave it to Beaver.  Some older couples no longer talk to each other--which actually helps--and in time they settle in to watching 14-hours of television a day and asking, "Did you say something?" 

Once the hearing goes, these successful couples press on toward the golden anniversary, or death, whichever comes first, and they begin to think about their estate planning.  In time, most couples will realize that they have no estate to plan and can find ultimate relaxation at a place like Shady Grove or Slippery Pines.

Later, of course, God will want to know, "What was your secret?"

Fortunately, the older loving couple has an eternity to figure out the answer.   

Anniversary Analysis

When it comes to wedding anniversaries, the older male can often benefit from psychoanalysis.  In these sessions, for example, he learns that everything is his mother's fault and the therapist can suggest many other coping mechanisms that can help him transfer the remaining blame to his wife.  In essence, he discovers that he would be much better suited to living in a cave as a savage, and that evening he asks his wife to consider moving to a hut, preferably one that is in a pizza delivery zone.

A wedding anniversary is a reminder that men and women are, in many respects, of differing species.  While the man, as primate, is suited for utilitarian purposes such as cleaning a carburetor with a grease-soaked rag, the female seems more suited to wearing beautiful leopard-skin attire and selecting home decor.  Men are hunters.  Women are nesters. 

Few men hunt today because they would shoot their eyes out.  And so, in order to make due and give themselves the experience of hunting game, they work at Radio Shack and attempt the far more difficult work of selling out-dated technology to senior citizens.  This is also why so many younger men are electrocuted trying to operate police scanners.

Wedding anniversaries are, of course, the vestige of a by-gone era in which people used to stay married until their teeth fell out.  Many marriages of eras past ended in hangings instead of divorce, and today men cope with these longer marriages by attending football games and lusting after June Cleaver.

Psychoanalysis helps the older male by allowing him to explore his mind.  Here he discovers that he has already lost it . . . and so he compensates by eating bags of potato chips and watching Dragnet reruns.  And as the older menopausal woman continues to change, the older man sleeps on his side of the bed, wondering when it God's name he will be allowed to cover himself in a sheet.  The nights are cold, but according to his mate, they are living in an oven that is hot enough to roast a fifty pound turkey.

The latter anniversaries of a marriage can be analyzed in a variety of ways, and the older male picks one or two of these theories and learns to live in it.  One theory, of course, is that he is still in love . . . and this is why he takes his wife to dinner and attempts, afterwards, to initiate a sexual encounter with phrases like, "Would you like desert?" or "Mind if I sit naked on the couch and watch The Big Bang Theory?"

Another theory is simply this:  that no other woman would have him and this is the best it's going to get.  He learns to live with the latter.  And he realizes he will be writing blogs until he dies.



  

Why Men Forget Wedding Anniversaries

The older male often forgets his wedding anniversary.  And this frequently leads the older woman to conclude that he doesn't care.  But nothing could be further from the truth.  The fact is, he's doing her a favor.

Men who are embracing their own manopause have already remembered the biggies such as the seventh anniversary, the diamond anniversary (10), and the silver anniversary (25).  But at anniversary 28 he realizes he's not yet reached the milestone of the pearl anniversary (30) or the gold (50).  He's stuck at Maalox, and he's entering the year of the Advil Anniversary.

No, the older male isn't going to purchase this type of gift for his wife, so he forgets about it.  He enters the witness-protection-program for men and, for several years, goes undercover (hoping his wife will want to go undercover too for one last fling).  He creates various aliases in the hope that his wife will enjoy certain evenings with such hot-blooded men as the Latin Lover (Roberto), the hairdresser (Silvio) and the mailman (Frank) who, by the way, always delivers.  He practices his various voices and moves and reminds the older woman that this is the best it's going to get until he can afford a hip replacement.

Men forget the forgettable anniversaries because they don't want to subject their older wives to additional harm.  Older women, after all, have been through much trauma with their older men--including such high-water marks as childbirth, saving for college tuition, and the purchase of a first chain saw.  Older men realize that additional anniversaries are, quite simply, mean, and they should be forfeited for achievable goals such as a healthy oatmeal diet, avoiding scurvy, and having sex twice a year.

Eventually, of course, the older woman realizes that the older male is attempting to remember a wedding anniversary when he alludes to their love with such phrases as "have you lost weight?" or "wanna eat at Wendy's?" or "whatever happened to Anthony Wiener?"

The older male is not forgetful.  He is merciful.  And as he ages, he takes on the appearance of a Greek god.  

Are Men Slobs?

Sooner or later the older male is regarded as a slob.  He leaves a solitary sock on the bedroom floor.  He wears the same pair of underwear for a week (to conserve water and detergent).  Or his wife discovers an entire room in the basement littered with his dirty dishes and salted meats infested with various stages of fly larvae.  And women ascertain from these signs that men are slobs.

But men are not slobs by birth.  They are created.  And they must work at it.

Consider, for example, the younger male who inhabits his college dorm room--a space about the size of a British phone booth.  He enters into this social contract fully intending to domesticate himself and succumb to the social norms of decency.  But there are classes he must attend, and papers he must write, and before long he begins sleeping late and allowing his teeth to turn green.  He discovers that, without the intervention of women, he can actually live quite comfortably in his own natural juices.

After graduation, having learned that he can survive on two pair of socks and one stick of deodorant, he begins looking for a woman who knows how to launder sheets.  He has not been sleeping on sheets, but has been thinking about it.  Usually he asks a woman to marry him, and she agrees, providing he will clean himself up and wear a necktie to the wedding.

But as the male ages, he learns how to navigate around the social contract of marriage and, bit by bit, become a slob again.  He leaves a dish in the sink.  He clips his toenails on his wife's pillow.  Or he slips into bed at night unshowered following a day of chainsaw work in hundred degree heat.

If he leaves the toilet seat up he will be divorced within six months.

The male slob, however, doesn't ask for a woman's pity nor her wrath.  He seeks understanding.  He wonders why he can't stuff peanuts under the couch or eat the potato chips he discovers under the cushions.  He doesn't see why women object so vehemently to his nose picking.  And why the anger over his belching?

The older male is not a slob by choice.  His role models are legion.  And before he dies he hopes he can get one more day out of his sneakers.  His shoes have holes in them, but no more so than his soul.  He's just running out of time to be reformed.     

 

The New American Woman

Older men who are addicted to the Olympics are baffled by the new American woman.  Here, in the pool and on the track, she hops, skips, and runs like a gazelle and screams bloody-murder when she wins the gold.  Older men feel threatened by these Amazons (and Amazings) and eventually go to bed fearful that they will meet one of these new American women on the street and be pommeled to death with a Sunday edition of the newspaper.

Older men seem to prefer their women soft, with copies amounts of liver spots and cabooses that could, if the airline pressed the issue, insist that she purchase two seats . . . and both of them window.  The older male also realizes that he is stuck with the older woman who has been softening alongside him, like two lukewarm sticks of butter, and that he would no longer be attractive to the new American woman--who seems to prefer Bob Costas to Vin Skully or Keith Jackson (and aren't the latter two dead, anyway?).

No, the older male has been relegated to watching the new American woman dust sand off of her bikini, all the while looking at his old wife and saying, "When's the last time you bumped or spiked a ball, sweetheart?"

Naturally, she smirks and offers an ample comeback:  "Don't talk.  If you tried to jump a hurdle you'd be in traction for a month."

These are the days of our lives . . . and the older male grows increasingly despondent as he watches the new American woman, 95% of her gristle, hustle around a track and, after celebrating on the podium, give thanks to God even as the American Olympic committee is handing her a check.  The new American woman is self-sufficient, and she doesn't need to thank a man for "making it all possible."

The older male, by contrast, seems eager to thank his wife for something.  So he makes stuff up.  Some days he thanks her for just being her.  Or he points out how lost he would be if she were not so attentive to changing the toilet rolls.  Other times he notes that he is grateful that she reminded him, yet again, about an approaching anniversary and thanks her for purchasing his anniversary gift.  

The new American woman, however, would crush a guy's eye sockets if he forgot her birthday, and the older male often gives thanks that his old lady is going through menopause and doesn't seem to care about trivial matters any longer.  She is concerned only with medication, a daily calcium tablet, and an understanding male friend (usually not her husband).  

Of course, the older male can sometimes squeeze into the bronze if he brings home flowers or writes a decent poem now and then.  This is all he can hope for.  And afterwards, if he has succeeded in making her happy, he rubs his entire body with Ben Gay and hopes she will still want to touch him.   

The Typical Male Athlete

The typical male, as he ages, fancies that he still possesses vestiges of his former self, though-be-it scraps of athleticism that dangle from his pale and balding pate like moth-eaten carpet remnants.  He is certain that, if given the perfect combination of conditions, he could still shoot par.  And as long as he can swing anything around the house (weed-whacker, shrub clippers, etc.) he believes that he could still wield a major league bat and could hit a curve ball.

Women, on the other hand, realize that their prime athletic abilities vanished during the months of pregnancy and they are now free to laugh at the men whose waistlines are larger than their egos.  This is the new feminine sport, and they enjoy it immensely.

Naturally, as older men balloon to Sumo proportions, they gravitate to those athletic events that seem suited to XXXL sizes:  Olympic weight lifting, shot putting, hammer throwing, rolling down a green hillside littered with poison ivy.  They believe there is an event, a sport, that they can still play with some efficiency and ease.  Age is no barrier.  Or they could coach and yell at younger men, setting themselves up as experts in their chosen fields, instructing the able-bodied and buoyed up under the delusion that they are actually impacting the game on the field by screaming at the referees and making shrewd substitutions.

The typical male athlete, as he ages, enjoys the preparation for the athletic event much more than the athletic event itself.  This preparation comes complete with piles of nacho chips (carb loading phase), sheets of BBQ ribs (protein synthesis), and generous scoops of ice cream (cool down phase).  The older male actually believes this regimen is working to his advantage, making him stronger, more agile, deft with a fork.  Even while he's sitting on his ass, he's in training.

Eventually the older male retires from athletic competition in same manner as Brent Farve or Michael Jordan--after several failed attempts and multiple trips to the pharmacy for pain killers.  This usually occurs when the male is in his eighties and is on life support.

Following his retirement, he hopes for a trophy.  He purchases one from Walmart and sits it on the mantle.  His wife dusts it twice and year and eventually tosses it in the trash.

And that's when he says, "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."  

Man-Sized

Eventually the older male realizes that he is a pawn in a marketing scheme designed to separate him from his wallet. When he goes to the grocery store, for example, he is accosted with labels touting the contents as "man-sized" or "manly". There is even something called a "Manwich." And even TV dinners come in frozen slabs designed the quell a man's enormous appetite.

Some years ago a deodorant company told us that their product was "strong enough for a man, but made for a woman." I never used the product, however, as I didn't want my wife to think I was worried about my odor. Somewhere I had read that women actually like a natural man-scent, not something artificial, and that pheromones are the real deal.

I do, however, possess some man-sized features such as: my home library, which is enormous; my CD collection, which is enormous; and my tool box full of broken screwdrivers, which is very enormous. I collect other things on a small scale, and don't like to spend much time exercising, which is why I write this blog.

Men are natural suckers, though, for the super-sized meals and drinks that the marketing experts toss in our faces. We don't want to drink anything small in the company of a woman and, when given the choice, most men will opt for a steak the size of Nebraska. Small orders make us look cheap, and we don't like that either.

Those marketing people know that older men, in particular, feel trapped and inadequate. We need the morale-boost that super-sized and man-sized items can give us. We feel tough when we order large.

That, of course, is why I don't diet. I keep waiting for someone to invent a way to lose man-sized weight while eating a super-sized pizza.