Reason NOT to Marry and Older Man

Today I am mad at him.

Not because of anything he said.  He’s always kind.

Not because he did anything awful.  He never does.

Not because he has quirks and foibles.  Everyone does.

I’m mad because he is going to leave me.  He won’t leave me today or tomorrow, probably not for years to come.  But eventually, he will leave.

He will leave because he is much older than I.  He will leave because, statistically, men die at a younger age than women.  He will leave because he is less healthy than I.  He will leave because his father left his mother way too early.  He will leave because he is not immortal.  In all likelihood, he will die, leaving me alone for 20 years or more. 

Every sign of middle age scares me.  Every forgetful moment or repeated story reminds me.  Every aching joint or numb foot, every threat of high blood pressure, every gray hair and every lost hair angers me.  Every birthday pulls us inevitably closer to the day he leaves.    

I can manage all practical matters surrounding his death.  I can ensure adequate life insurance, buy burial plots, make wills and talk about funeral plans.  I can plan to support myself, make arrangements for the disposition of property, pay off my house and get out of debt.  I can develop a relationship with a grief counselor, increase my faith in an afterlife, pray for strength.

There is no way to prepare for the devastating loss of him.  His DVDs will gather dust, his bookmark won’t move, his glasses will sit untouched in the car.  No one will tell me stories late at night or yell at my shoes.  I will have to learn to make perfect pasta al dente and grill a perfect burger myself. 

He sends the children out the door with the words, “Be careful.”  Everyone knows he means, “I love you.”  He never fails, never forgets.  If someone sneaks out without telling him he sends a text message, “Be careful.”  “Come back,” he means, “You are important.  You matter to me.”  After he leaves, “Be careful” will only mean “be careful.” 

He plays devil’s advocate for all political issues, skillfully and convincingly arguing both sides.  He is annoyingly even-handed and fair-minded, willingly discussing the logic on both sides, and calling out the silliness and stupidity.  When he leaves, I will struggle to see the other sides and different points of view.

He teaches.  I’ve always had a thing for teachers.

He carries soda cans all over the house, needs help to match patterned shirts and ties, turns the light on too early in the morning and off too early at night, leaves socks on the floor and dishes in the sink, thinks four is the correct number of shoes to own, and eats sardines in mustard sauce (shudder!).  He ignores my faults and idiosyncrasies as easily as he ignores bugs on the sidewalk, so I am learning to ignore his.

When he leaves, the chair on the other side of the table will be too empty, the couch will be too long, and the bed will be too cold.  My house will suddenly be too big, but the world will become too small. 

I am mad that he will leave me.  I cry when I hear the songs he’s chosen for his funeral, in anticipation of the real funeral.  Some days, my heart breaks for my own loss.  I lie awake at night, listening to him breathe, dreading all the long, silent nights ahead. 

Today is worth tomorrow’s pain.  He is here, he loves me, he is mine.  I will save up all of the todays, and bring them out one at a time during the tomorrows, chasing pain and bringing remembered love.