Walking Dumpster Fire

My Mom told me I would flirt with older men when I was itty-bitty, like 40-year-olds. That makes me laugh and also feel so sad for baby Carrie. What was happening that she needed attention and validation from men who were decades older than her? 

My Mom has mentioned to me this particular kid-slut trait a few times, and always in jest. But, as I get older, I realize, oh fuck, not much has changed. 

I met my first older man-thing when I was 17. And he was 29 (ick). We started dating when I was at the ripe age of 18, and the relationship lasted about two years. I remember when I turned 30, thinking about how anyone my age could date a teenager, and then I threw up knowing I was once that teenager. 

My ex-husband and I met years later. He was my age, almost to the day. We had so much in common. We would collect stories about our favorite TV shows, what cereals we ate as kids, and what music we listened to. Our lives were so similar at some points, even though growing up, we lived thousands of miles apart-–he in Wisconsin, and I in Arizona. We were the generation first introduced to the internet. We had cellphones in high school, yet we still remember the numbers to our best friends’ landlines in third grade. We traded information on our favorite Pop-tarts (cinnamon and brown sugar, always), where we were when we heard Princess Diana died, what September 11th was like in our last year of high school, who we picked to play in Super Mario Kart (Yoshi!) and what Simpson episodes reign supreme. 

One day, in year 3 of our marriage, when things started to become rocky and unfocused, he said, “I feel like you would listen to me more and validate what I say if I were older.” Get the fuck out of here. What the hell does age have anything to do with whether or not I believe you are right? I am right anyway, so what difference does it make? I was irritated and told him he was being a child (that’ll teach ’em!).

Dude was spot on. 

I don’t know how often he would say something, and I would whip out my phone to make sure he was correct. But it was somewhere in the trillions. It could have been about anything.

Him: “The sky is blue.”

(Me taking out phone): “Hmmmmmm, yep, it looks like it is. Ok, I think you might be correct on this one, but maybe let’s see if Al Roker agrees before we really commit to the color of the sky.”

Everything factual (or factual-esque) that came out of his mouth was met with eye-rolls, condescension, googling, or my favorite: the patented “ooooooh kaaay” where I change my voice to sound like an idiot (one to always keep in your back pocket for fights, you’re welcome!) to let him know that I think his opinions are crap. 

Even now, if a guy who even resembles someone who could pass for under 34 whiffs in my direction at a bar, I will tell him I am old enough to be his Mother and mock him all night. (This is why I have men lining up at the door. BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!). He could have a quantum physics degree from MIT, and I will still think I am smarter than him while telling him math is for losers. But show me a fit (or fit-adjacent) silver fox in a suit, and I will need to put on a new pair of pants because my vagina boner just exploded. 

After my marriage hit the crapper, I fell for much older man #2. I am 34 at the time, and he is 61. (Jesus, even writing that seems like holy crap Carrie, get your father-issues shit together.) I thought he was brilliant. He fascinated me, and I was so attracted to him that I found myself constantly thinking about him. He has a doctorate in cardiovascular physiology and is in the medical start-up world. Which translates to: doesn’t make a dime. But I didn’t care; I was knee-deep in some heavy-ass love shit.

Our talks would last for hours. He traveled quite a bit and could always tell a great story, which I would lap up. He knew so much about history, read voraciously, liked good comedy, and was incredibly fit–not for his age, but any age. How was this older man still single? How am I so lucky?

Then, I took him down to Arizona to meet my two best girlfriends. They were going to love him as much as I did. 

Here is the thing. When you are in a hardcore love bubble with someone you have only dated for a couple months, and think that this could be “the one”, you sometimes need a couple of bitches to pull your ass out of your dreamland. 

Now, my bestie is always on my side and wants to see me happy. But I knew the second she met this man she hated him. No, not hate; she didn’t want him with her best friend. And my bubble burst. 

We were sitting in her kitchen, her and her husband, me and my man-friend. Man-friend was talking about something I have no recollection of, but I am sure it was something medical or sciencey when I looked over at my friend’s face, thinking, “Oh, she is going to smile at me and telepathically tell me how awesome and smart he is!”

What I saw was a woman who wanted to kill herself because she had been in this conversation 20 billion minutes too long. Her eyes were so glazed over I was afraid they would forever stay that way. I looked at her confused and noticed her husband, who can excessively talk to anyone, just nodding and interjecting a word or two when he can. I looked at my man-friend and realized, holy shit, he is talking so much. So much talking! Why is he still talking?! Is there even this many words in the English language? Is he citing the entirety of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire verbatim? How long have we been in this “conversation,” aka lecture from Professor I Will Make You Want to Take Razor Blades to Your Eardrums From the Sheer Amount of Words Coming Out of My Mouth? Hours? Days?

I wasn’t with someone fascinating. I was with someone who had to convince everyone he was fascinating. And his complete essence was to be the most intelligent person in the room at any cost. 

Now, I wish I could have been like, whoa, totally dodged a bullet on this one, we should probably not be together, and I have some major crap I need to look into in my own man-validating-needing world, but I didn’t. 

I forged on for five more years. Because when you are someone who needs validation from an older man, and you don’t get it, you stick it out forever (donning rose-colored glasses) until he says you are good enough. And he will never say those words. Ever. I know this; I have always known this. 

I also know my little feminist heart, which is such a fucking badass at times, will tell me, dude, you are good enough, and please get away from someone who makes you question your worth for even a second. 

At times, she wins, and at times, I want this now 65-year-old man to say, you are enough, every part of you, even the messy part, you are enough.