Gross Old Man or Sexy Guy-Candy: Is love blind?

I seem to be apologizing to far too many people these days. My time has not been my own since June, so my blog frequency has been skeletal, at best, and my social media activity has been… <cue the sound of crickets>

Well, after months of hard work and zero rest, my husband and I listed our house for sale last week. The amount of time and energy required to do something like this is simply astounding. I have moved over a dozen times in my life, but never had to primp, preen, and stage a home. Times sure have changed.

So now that all of that is done, I can actually sit down and share one of the crazy thought processes that has been distracting my quirky little brain.

During this process of working myself into a coma, I have been the evil taskmaster for my husband.

“Slave driver.”

“Relentless torture.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Can I take a break now?”

Those are some of the many comments and questions directed at me. Now I know what union bosses go through every day.

“Yes sweetheart, it is ‘five o’clock somewhere,’ go ahead and take a beer break.”


Despite all of the objections and pouty-face looks I get from my sweet husband, I still love him more than ever, maybe even a little bit more than yesterday.

A few days ago, he was sweating his little hiney off in the yard while I was washing the bedroom windows. I had to stop for a moment and just admire him for all the hard work he was putting into making this sale a success. As I looked at him though—studying the face I fell in love with almost nine years ago—I found myself taken aback by how handsome he is. That’s what got me thinking, and I was ready to pounce him with one of my many ridiculous thought patterns. I went outside (with beer in hand) and invited him to sit for a spell.

“Sweetheart. When you were in your twenties, were you attracted to women in their forties?”

The look of panic came across his face immediately.

“Uhh… uhh… umm… I don’t know.” I could see that his mind was racing.

“Honey, I’m not trying to set you up. I swear. How about this—would you have been attracted to a woman in her fifties when you were twenty?”

“Uhh… uhh… umm… I don’t know!” He was now gulping back his beer as his eyes darted back and forth, mentally searching for an escape.

I was obviously not going to get anywhere with this man on a topic like this, so I just came out with it, and explained my thinking.

When I was in my twenties, if I saw a man in his forties or fifties, I thought, “Ew! Gross old man!” and couldn’t even imagine having to kiss someone so ancient—never mind get “jiggy” with him. Whenever I watched movies where actors with a very large age difference had to kiss or act out a love scene, my stomach would churn, and I would think, “Gross! I feel so bad for that actress.” I still have those thoughts actually.

So now, as I rapidly gain momentum on the path leading to the bottom of my forties, I think about how I look at younger men. I can still recognize the physical beauty of a young man, but my loins don’t respond the way they used to when my age was comparable to theirs. What’s worse is that when I see a fit man posing with his torso bared, and his pants hanging below his hips, I think, “Ew gross! Cover that shit up! I don’t want to see your nether regions.”

So today, I ask a question instead of just my usual rambling observations.

Does our brain age right along with us so that we are attracted to each other as the wrinkles take a hold of our bodies and faces?

Why don’t I look at my husband and think, “Ewww… Gross old man!”

Will I still be attracted to him when we are eighty?

Why will I be attracted to him when we’re eighty, when I gag a little at the sight of photos of Hugh Hefner and his wife du jour?

Why, why, why?


One thing I’ve struggled with since meeting my husband, is that he got what I call a “retread.” I’ve been adequately recycled to keep on truckin’, but I do not look anything like I did when I was new off the shelf.

Gravity had long begun to grip me before we met, and I can no longer confidently walk around in a bikini or cute little lacy lingerie. So, knowing that men are very visual, how do I know that he’s not going to find himself a cute, nubile new thing like so many other men have?

After many years of wondering/fearing this, I think I can confidently say that I am safe—my husband will not stray.

How can I be so confident? There are a few factors, actually:

  1. The secretary/bookkeeper at his job (who is the only woman at his place of employment) could be the twin of Magda from There’s Something About Mary;
  2. We pretty much do everything together, so I don’t know where he’d find the opportunity; and
  3. I exhaust him with so many projects that he’d never have the energy for someone young and spunky. (Unless her idea of a good time is watching him fall asleep on the couch at 7:01 each evening.)

But alas, despite the confidence I have towards the survival of my marriage, I still ask the question…

Is love blind or do our brains just get wrinkly too?



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