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.