At 62, I Sometimes Still Want to Be 'Hot' and Feel Desired

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When I met my husband Stretch, I was still rocking it. I was a youthful 52 back then, wearing short skirts, high heels and feeling sexy. We couldn’t get enough of each other.

Fast forward 10 years and I’m still happiest in bed, only now there’s a book in my lap and Stretch, a good foot away, has one in his. I feel like I went to sleep in a silky negligee and woke up in flannel pajamas. I’ve gone from rabbit to panda in a decade, and that’s just in the sex department. The truth is, in every way, I am circling the old-lady drain and I’m not sure whether I want to claw my way back out or accept it and ride the wave down.

Maybe it’s not so much that my hormones are hibernating as they’ve gone haywire. While I don’t want to do it nearly as often as Stretch, whose sex drive hasn’t wavered much, I still manage to notice younger men. The other morning a repairman rang the doorbell. I opened the door to see what looked like a Greek God in a uniform, hard hat, neon yellow jacket, neatly trimmed beard, brown flecked with gray and piercing blue eyes. He flashed me a big smile and asked, “How can I help?”

I turned a deep shade of crimson and managed to utter, ‘The Wi-Fi is out.”

Then I imagined what was looking back at this hunk of masculinity: An older woman in glasses who hadn’t yet brushed her hair, wearing a thick terrycloth bathrobe and UGG slippers. I was a vision as well, but less Scarlett Johansson and more, well, an old lady.

My repairman politely told me he could work on the Wi-Fi outside the house and wouldn’t want to bother me again. I tromped back to the kitchen and my second cup of coffee not necessarily wishing our exchange had turned into a bad porn plot, but also not necessarily wishing it hadn’t. Both things were true. I wanted to be hot and desired. But I was also really exhausted by the thought of being hot and desired.

Stretch and I went to a party hosted by some acquaintances a few weeks ago. We knew the parents, but not their children. Children are hardly what came to mind when I spotted these three young dashing men, all in their 20s, one more handsome than the next. I couldn’t stop sneaking peeks at them.

I am 62. If it were a few years earlier, this could have been illegal. Stretch started chatting with one son about college life. While they were busy talking, I got lost in that son Tom’s thick, dark eyelashes, framing his cerulean eyes. Then I noticed Tom’s stunning eyes not looking at Stretch. He wasn’t looking at me either.

“Excuse me," Tom interrupted Stretch. “I’m sorry but I need to go, and … and rescue my girlfriend. Make sure she’s okay and stuff…”

“Oh sure,” Stretch said. Tom’s mother had pointed out the girlfriend to me earlier, a stunning brunette in a teeny dress who didn’t seem like the type that needed rescuing. I watched Tom move through the crowd, not to his girlfriend but to a group of frat buddies. His shoulders decompressed as he flashed a relieved smile to his brethren. I realized then that Tom was escaping both of us.

It wasn’t just me who had aged out of “interesting." Stretch had too.

Just like I used to escape my parents’ friends at parties who always seemed like they had all the time in the world to hear what I was up to while I had no time at all to tell them. Better, more dazzling people awaited me elsewhere. Stretch and I had become those people you run from, old people, invisible people. It was payback time.

If only I had appreciated then what was coming down the road. Maybe I would have been more patient with those gray hairs because one day I would join them, one day like now. I discovered that I am still drawn to and stunned by the beauty of youth, the flawless skin, the unlined eyes. But now I got it. Our fleeting youth is gone. And, I am no longer seen by youth.

Just then, Stretch’s hand came up behind my neck and he leaned in to kiss me. And that’s when it hit me. You know who does see me? My husband. He still thinks I’m the sexiest woman in the room. I have no idea what he sees when he sees me. Book or no book on my lap.

The other day I thanked him for bringing me coffee in bed.

“Thank you for my life,” he answered. Stretch is not perfect, but he’s pretty close.

I realize that in many ways, when I see young people, I just see an earlier version of myself. It’s hard saying goodbye to past selves.

After dinner one night in Manhattan, some friends took us to a club called The Players. The downstairs had people chatting at wooden tables, a pool table and a record player with some vinyl records from the 1980s. Stretch put on a song from The Pretenders and started dancing. “This is exactly what my college hall looked like,” he beamed. I could picture a young Stretch so easily, not too different from today. I started dancing too.

Maybe it’s not so much saying goodbye to past selves, as understanding that they’re inside of us somewhere waiting for their moment. When we left the club in the early hours after playing several rounds of pool, Stretch said, “Now that’s a club I’d like to join.” I knew what he meant. It was a place where we could feel our youthful spirits rise, if only for a night. Sometimes that’s all you need.


Do you still feel youthful on the inside? Let us know in the comments below.