My writing group selected the topic, “The Most Interesting Person I Ever Knew,” but when I tried to choose one, I got stuck. There were two men in my life. I loved them both equally so the topic posed a problem with no solution — a question with no answer. Both were bigger than life and had a lot in common. At the same time, each had his own unique special talents. My years with them were wonderful — and terrible.

Both men were 6’ tall, while I was 5’ short. They were the perfect size for me to curl up in their arms, put my head on their chests, smile and drift off to sleep.  Not both at the same time, of course. I’m not a parallel lover. I’m more of a serial wife.

The first had sandy-colored hair, grey-blue eyes and rosy boyish cheeks. We were young when we met. He barely had a beard. His hair was soft and wavy and long.  I loved the feel of his hair.

The second had dark straight hair, short in the back and long in front so that a lock of hair always fell forward into his eyes. He would toss his head back and draw his fingers through his hair to make it all one shiny piece. I loved the feel of his hair too.

My hair wasn’t silky, but was soft and wavy. I wore it long and loose for the first man, short and puffy for the second. Each one liked a different hairstyle so, of course, I had to please.

Man number one loved to play basketball, lift weights and run hard. When I hugged him, he smelled of sweat and the outdoors. Every morning, man number two did twenty push-ups, thirty leg-raises and bicycled vigorously for a minute and a half. Then he showered, shampooed and shaved. When I hugged him, he smelled of Old Spice.
They were both good lovers but the first was more exciting, maybe because he was the first.

I learned a lot from these men. From the first, I learned about fine art, great literature and classical music. He encouraged me to look closely at people and nature. He talked about Weltschmertz and the pain of creativity. He wrote books and poems and never once suggested I might do the same. We had a large and varied group of friends.

From the second I learned about politics, the law and the seamy underside of both. I learned how injustice was the norm and honesty was a salable commodity. He was a lawyer and never once suggested that I do anything except keep to my own career and put my earnings in our joint bank account. Our friends were all lawyers and judges.

But, there was one important thing they had in common. They loved me as long as I accepted them “as is.” As for a mate, they wanted a woman who looked good in a bikini, was inventive in bed and whose breath smelled like chocolate chip cookies. They were searching for a marshmallow-woman, soft and fluffy, a good cook, a loyal companion mindful of their needs, the ideal friend-lover-mother. In short, they needed someone who would fulfill their own narcissistic dreams. When they discovered that I wasn’t the masochist they were looking for, they left for greener, younger pastures. It didn’t seem to matter how much younger. Just as long as those pastures were much, much greener.

I picked them both, loved them both, so I “set my cap” and shamelessly pursued them both. I convinced them I was perfect. Twice I made my bed, but twice, I couldn’t figure out how to lie in it.

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You’d think I would’ve learned my lesson by now. “Don’t be a jerk,” you say. “Give it up. Get a life — your own life.”

But you can’t teach an old dog new tricks so I keep hoping I’ll meet the perfect man.

I want to be a couple — even if we’re both too old to share the same bed and our teeth are falling out. I’m still up for it even if he has prostate trouble and gets up four times during the night, while I have a gaseous stomach and leg cramps that wake me screaming at 4:00 a.m.

I want someone to listen to my stories over and over again, because, to tell the truth, nothing new ever happens in my life and he won’t get bored because he can’t remember how they end. And if he does, it doesn’t matter because he can’t stay awake that long anyway.
I want someone who won’t look at me first thing in the morning. Who’ll wait until I shower, put in my hearing aids, find my bifocals, locate my wrist watch, retrieve my dentures from the glass on the sink and finally, pull my wig on and pin it tightly in place.

I want someone to sit and talk to me at the kitchen table … not about his medical problems or my mental issues. Someone who holds my hand when I cross the street and steadies the chair when I sit down so I don’t land on the floor, my wig by my side and my false teeth just out of reach.

I want someone who likes my jokes and my cooking and my dumpy figure and finds my glasses, the car keys and the phone for me. Someone to take me to a movie and buy me ice cream before we go back home.

At the end of the day, we’ll hug and kiss while we watch a little TV. Then we’ll each toddle off to adjoining bedrooms. He’ll close his door. I’ll close mine. We’ll both sigh, take off our clothes and lie down in separate beds. I’ll fall asleep and dream that I’m making it with eighty-year-old Michael Caine while my third husband is dreaming that he’s running naked on the beach with seventy-two-year-old Jane Fonda.

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