First Date with a Double Standard

Things don't go as planned when (mature) woman meets (overgrown) boy.

I've been a model for most of my life starting from the age of 16, always taking my good looks for granted. To say I've been smug is an understatement.

When you're singled out for how you look, and then make a living from it, it's hard not to be. That's not an excuse, but an explanation. I turned 70 this past July. Yes, I still clean-up and look good for my age, but I have to accept, I'm not that beauty turning heads any longer. The change didn't just occur in my profession. It has altered my personal life in ways I hadn't anticipated.

I went on a blind date with a man named Roy in his early 70s. Surprisingly, I liked him. He was handsome, in an Anthony Hopkins way, with the same wry sense of humor that I have. Afterward, I called my friend Lee, who made the introduction, to ask what he thought of me. After much too long a pause, she said, "I'm sorry Susannah. Though he liked you, you're just a little too old."

"Old? But we're the same age. He's older, actually."

"True, but he wants someone more in their late 40s. I'm really sorry."

She's sorry

"Why didn't he tell you that before?"

"When I said you were a model, that's all he needed to hear. I guess he assumed, you know, you were still beautiful."

So you're agreeing I'm not, was my ego's first thought.

---

If she had stabbed me, it might have hurt less. After hanging up, I gathered an assortment of un-retouched photographs taken over the past couple of years. I then turned on all the lights and took a good look at myself.

To me I seemed the same. Then I bravely (or stupidly) looked in a magnifying mirror.

At once I saw what he saw. The lines and wrinkles across my face and neck that make me look like a map of Delaware. I had gotten so used to them I just didn't see them anymore. They've become part of me. It's like that Brandi Carlile song.... All of these lines across my face, tell you the story of who I am.

It had never dawned on me that a man would take them into consideration when it came to making his assessment of me, leaving character in second place.

He had wrinkles and they didn't bother me, nor did his slight paunch peeking out from his blazer. One could say it was my first date with a double standard. I tried not to get angry at Lee. She only meant well, convincing me to go on a blind date even though I didn’t care to. I'm comfortable being alone, something that bewilders the Lees of the world who feel that they know better what's best for you.

They can't comprehend no longer being on the hunt for Mr. Right.

Especially since I was quite the femme fatale in my youth. But I have happily retired my number like any great athlete. When you've been on the prowl for so long, you welcome your sexual retirement, something if you were told twenty years ago, you never would have believed.

Why, then, did I then agree to meet Roy? Lee made him sound alluring, special with all the traits I like in a man. Smart, funny and exceptionally well read.

The red flag I didn't see: She left out kind.

For the record, I'm not against meeting someone if it felt right, though auditioning for masculine approval is well behind me. In other words, I'm not on Match.com promoting myself like a latter day June Cleaver in heels and a teddy.

But after Lee's build-up, I decided what did I have to lose? Turns out, my self-esteem. It at once went missing.

---

My friend Camille, who treats aging like a mere rumor, still dressing like a 30 year-old, said I needed, as she put it, to vamp myself up. But brandishing my boobs like calling cards just isn't in me to do. I'm from Connecticut. My mother would rush down from the ether and give me a good smack.

Camille also suggested a little clean-up. Nothing too radical. Just a sweep under the eyes along with Botox here and there, to freshen me up, all for the likes of Roy and his ilk with their unrealistic expectations. But really, I asked myself, is this man's opinion so important? Enough that I was actually thinking of tampering with my face, something I swore I’d never do – and taking the risk of coming out looking like a dinner plate?

I think not.

And who cares what one-ply, puffy-in-the-middle Roy thinks anyway? He should know how his stock dropped with me, how grateful I am to be spared an involvement that no doubt would have crashed and burned.

As my neighbor in Alcoholics Anonymous always says...rejection is God's protection. What matters is what Susannah thinks, she who was contemplating bangs and turtlenecks all year round.

Do I even want a man in my life at this stage of the game? As I grow older, and I think speak for many women, my needs from others decrease. I’m looking more to myself to have those needs met. After all, we can depend on ourselves to show up. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

I'm a caretaker by nature who's finally taking care of myself.

But I'll admit, the incident is still troubling, so I ponder the question...if you were to welcome a man into your life, Susannah, what would be his requirements?

He'd be kind, funny and smart in that order, able to appreciate rather than critique. He'd always have butterflies in his stomach whenever I came into view. And as Jane Austen as it may sound, he'd be happy to simply hold my hand as he whispers how beautiful he finds me, even with all these lines across my face, telling the story of who I am.

---

Susannah Bianchi has written for More Magazine, On The Avenue and Chicken Soup For The Soul. Follow her adventures at athingirl.com. She lives in New York City. 

Illustrations from Getty Images, via Unsplash