Im looking for someone lively and energetic, not someone my age: At fifty, things are just not the same anymore A 55-year-old chap hid his age and his belly, but then he got offended when he found out how old the woman was
I need a woman whos no older than forty-two. Thats the absolute limit. And even then, only if she looks thirty-five, max. At fifty, its not what Im after, Tony. I want someone full of pep and energy, not my contemporary.
To be honest, Im no Jude Law, but inside, I feel twenty-eight. And lets be fair, men only grow in value with age, while women well, you know what I mean.
My friend Lucy and I were tucked away at the next table, unintentionally pulled into being the audience for this one-man show. Wed popped into a café for a bite after gym and were deep in discussion about a new diet, when this chaps monologue unceremoniously cut through our chat.
Did you hear him? Lucy snorted quietly. Thinks hes a prize. More like hes on a BOGOF offer.
Hush, I smiled. Lets hear him out. Its practically live theatre.
Meanwhile, the show went on:
For example, I wont eat yesterdays leftovers. Stands to reason. A woman should cook fresh meals every single day. Of course, as a bachelor I can whip up a plate of pasta for myself, Im not useless. But if Im in a relationship, its got to be serious: roast, homemade pies, the lot. And obviously, she has to be petite. I want contrast: Im solid, shes tiny.
And kids? his mate ventured, eyeing solid with a touch of doubt. Youve got grown-up kids, grandkids on the way
I dont need more heirs, got plenty as it is. Im after a companion soul and body. Someone active, whod fancy a countryside walk or even a trek up a hill. Or, failing that, at least up for weekends in the garden.
I nearly choked on my juice. A trek up a hill? This man clearly hasnt walked beyond the local corner shop.
Lucy, bet you ten quid hell try to chat me up? I whispered with a wink.
Are you serious? Lucys eyes widened. Verity, youre certainly not under forty.
Shh, I put my finger to my lips. This is research. I want to explore the depths of male self-delusion.
Turns out, the chat-up was no challenge at all. We swapped numbers, and by the evening we were messaging as if wed known each other for years.
Online, he went by Macho48.
His profile photo was at least ten years old: belly pulled in, a snazzy car in the background, and a look of supreme confidence.
A few days in, he suggested we meet up.
He turned up in his Sunday best. The buttons on his jacket barely survived the pressure of his impressive stomach, out and proud.
Verity, he beamed, flashing a decidedly less-than-Hollywoodesque smile. You look absolutely marvellous tonight.
Thank you, Julian, I said coyly. Youre rather presentable yourself.
We met a few times after that.
For me, it was a real test of my acting skills. I sat through stories about his business empire (a stall at the market), how hed nearly bought a new car (but decided to invest in his venture instead), and long ruminations on how important a cosy home is for a man.
We strolled through the park after a hundred yards he was breathless, but assured me it was some kind of breathing technique.
And then, the crunch moment arrived.
Julian, mellow after dinner and basking in my generous compliments, decided it was time to move things forward.
Verity, he said, taking my hand, youre perfect slim, capable, young. By the way, I should admit Im not forty-eight.
Really? I raised an eyebrow with mock surprise. Then how old are you?
Fifty-five, he breathed, clearly watching for my reaction. But Ive aged well, havent I?
Absolutely, Julian! I gushed. Couldnt be more than fifty-four! I adore a man with life experience thats where wisdom comes from.
He positively glowed.
Well, thats a relief. I was worried. Im quite firm about it: women older than forty-two just arent for me. The energys not the same. But you youre fire, a proper girl.
Thanks, love, I said, gently stroking his balding head. Actually, Ive got a little secret myself.
Oh? Whats that? Children? Debts? he looked alarmed.
No, nothing like that. My age.
He stiffened.
What do you mean? Youre not forty?
Almost.
Thirty-eight? he asked, hope in his voice.
I pulled my passport from my bag and handed it over.
Open it, Julian. Take a look.
He took it with shaking hands, opened it, and stared at the birth date, doing the maths in his head.
Nineteen seventy-five.
Fifty he whispered, going pale. Youre fifty?
Exactly, Julian. Had my milestone birthday two months ago.
The passport slipped from his fingers. He stared at me as if Id morphed into a wicked witch right before his eyes.
But how? You look
Like a woman who looks after herself, Julian. And doesnt live off takeaway.
But thats deceit! he exclaimed. I told you: forty-two is my limit. Its my principle. I cant be with someone my own age.
For the record, Im not your exact age. And you were happy enough until now, werent you? Do you see me crumbling before your eyes?
Julian flushed crimson.
No, but the number Fifty. Thats almost pension age.
No, Julian old age is when your brain refuses to accept reality, I said coolly, standing up. Im a woman in her prime. And you know what, Ive realised something too.
Whats that? he asked, with those washed out eyes.
That at fifty, I need a proper man. Not a bundle of insecurities, a beer belly and a market stall. You couldnt handle my fire. Youd burn out at the first attempt.
I picked up my passport and headed to the door.
Verity! he called after me. Wait. What about us?
What about us? I replied, turning back. By your logic, were age mates. You wanted someone young. Go and find her. Maybe youll get lucky with someone who cant read the numbers.
I stepped out of his cosy, granny chic parlour and breathed in the crisp evening air.
Lucy was waiting in the car below.
How did it go? she asked as I slid into the passenger seat. Did he show his true colours?
And how! I laughed. You shouldve seen his face when I handed him my passport. He looked as if hed just learnt the Earth isnt flat.
So how did it end?
Well, hell carry on searching for his younger woman and drive himself mad in the process. And we, my dear, are off to celebrate. Ive got a date tonight with a proper man. Hes forty-five and couldnt care less what age my passport says.
And Julian? Hes still on the dating sites. Updated his profile. Now it says: Seeking a woman strictly under 40. Honest! Still rocking that ten-year-old photo, of course.
Why do you think so many men are afraid of women their own age? And is it worth hiding your age for the sake of love, or is it better to lay your cards on the table right from the start?
