Are bodacious baby boomers ever too old for real romance? Do you ever find yourself thinking about how old you truly are in bodacious years? Do you assume the good things in life are over, so it’s time to settle down in that recliner and accept your fate? Do you follow it up with a reality check of your bodaciousness? Bodacious baby boomers never just roll over and play dead, not even for a biscuit.
I once read a piece by a famous female journalist lamenting that men no longer tracked her when she entered a room. Those heads stopped automatically turning as she walked by because she was over forty. Wow. It’s been a long time since I was forty. In that time, I’ve learned some important lessons.
There’s more to turning heads than good looks and a “cute chassis”. The older I get, the more selective I have become in seeking to turn heads. Do I want just anyone lusting after me? What about the old geezer who sits at his computer every day, viewing his online collection of porn? What about the guy in the sedan next to me at the stop light, whose been cheating on his wife for their entire married life? What about the goof ball who looks at everything in a skirt while you see his fantasies playing out on his face? (I want to play poker with this Stud Muffin — he’s got a big “tell” and that’s a sure win for me! Ca-ching!)
After decades of attracting attention from an unfiltered assortment of members of the opposite sex, I’ve gotten to the point where quantity isn’t as important as quality. Maybe it’s because I see a lot when I work out at the gym. One of my favorite activities while I’m exercising is people-watching. I get to see romances blossom and flourish, sometimes to burn bright, sometimes only to fizzle. I see lust, physical attraction, a whole lot of flirting, and once in a blue moon, a real love story. I see the married, the “in-a-committed-relationship”, and the unmarried doing the hormone-driven dance of physical excitement that can start a blaze.
Sometimes I get a front row seat for really interesting vignettes, like the couple who just about did the horizontal mambo on the gym floor for all to see. She, the queen of enthusiastic fitness instructors, demonstrated her ability to stretch in front of the handsome new prospect. (I don’t remember ever being THAT flexible — it made me wonder if there was a trapeze suspended from the mirrored ceiling in her bedroom.) He, ever aware of his good looks, made a point of demonstrating his own prowess for her, sweating up a storm as he pumped his muscles. Theirs was a performance worthy of a gold medal for gymnastics. You couldn’t miss the sparks sizzle between the pair as they hungrily devoured each other with their eyes, wanting each other so much they looked like they would spontaneously combust. You could tell that the moment they left the gym together, there would be a lot of groping and grabbing, gasping and groaning. It was purely physical, driven by heaving-bosom-encrusted, all-out, no-holds-barred lust. Put them in period costume and they could pose for the cover of “Night of the Sword Fighter’s Endless Delight” by I. M. Horny. No mystery there. No intrigue. A love match this was not.
Just the other day, I saw them again at the gym. Alas, the magic has vaporized. The chemical formula that made them too hot to handle all those months ago somehow got altered. Now they’re just like any other good-looking couple with no shared interests. I watched him shrug her off like she was an IRS agent at the neighborhood rummage sale in search of unreported capital gains. She hovered around him like an overly-persistent, determinedly-insistent bill collector, reminding him he was in arrears for all the “personal training” she gave him. She wasn’t about to let him “cheat” on her with an elliptical machine!
That’s the trouble with lust. It’s is not real passion. Real passion comes from the heart and the head, not just the groin. Lust blows with the wind and follows the air current. It fizzles and dies as appearances and circumstances change. It’s not that picky about what triggers it. It wants what it wants. That’s sex, usually after some kind of a chase. Lose the chase and lust wanes. Lose the sex and lust dies.
Real passion is often a head game. Something said in passing that lingers in your thoughts as you go about your day. A smile. A look in the eyes. A discovery. A challenge. It transcends lust with a Hailey’s comet of a tail trailing the skies, saying “Here I am, baby!”. It gets your attention like nothing else. Why? Passion attracts, with all that fire and heat. It makes you wonder what the other person is thinking, feeling, wanting, needing, even when you don’t want to ask. Real passion sticks with you. It’s what makes you say that you can never just be friends if you split up, because you just can’t imagine losing what makes the relationship so special. And if you can’t have the relationship, you don’t really want to settle for second best, because you know it’s not the same. A passionate relationship is never ordinary.
Want to know if you’re a bodacious baby boomer? Ask yourself if you can live without passion in your life. If you can still look forward to discovering something wonderful in another human being, if you can still imagine having your breath taken away by a glance across the table or a tender touch, you’re never really old. When there’s a fire in the heart, a flame in the head, the furnace is still working. Stoke the fire, control the burn, and you’ve got some great heat to keep you warm when life gets cold. If you’ve got it, take good care if it. If you don’t have it, get out there and start looking for it. Be bold. Be brazen. Be bodacious, baby!