Back when I was still trying to figure out which end of my body my head was on, if anyone had suggested that someday I’d be sleeping with a grandmother I would have told them they were as mad as a hatter. The world certainly rotates in a different direction at twenty then it does at sixty-something. Here I am in the ‘something’ category, merging wrinkles under the covers with a lady of  grandmotherly persuasion and loving every minute of it. Somehow, she just doesn’t fit my lifelong image of a cotton-haired little old lady shuffling around the kitchen with a bowl of Farina in one hand and a rubber spatula in the other.

It’s amazing how ageless age can be … and therein lies the rub! When it comes to femmes fatale, with soft curves and jiggly things, let’s establish right up front that guys never stop looking. As long as they are still drawing breath, their last drop of testosterone is routed to their eye sockets even before their hearts and lungs. I know women look too, but I won’t pretend to know very much about it. If I had any real understanding in that area, my premarital youth might have been squandered more effectively … and I would most certainly be a headliner in Guinness’ Book of Records.

Now don’t confuse looking with shopping, those are two different things. Looking is just what it says, although the criteria can vary widely as you’ll soon see. Shopping means that you probably intend to take something home, and unless you shop carefully, you might end up paying a considerable price! It wasn’t until I was around forty when I realized why they call the years from that particular mile post to infinity ‘middle age.’ Only a portion of the term involves longevity. The rest has to do with who and what a guy is comfortable ogling.  Not only is the suitability of the oglee age-related but as the mileage on the ogler’s odometer changes, so does his view of the road.

Men-in-waiting, such as high school and college boys, most often limit their lusts to young ladies near their own age. An ‘older’ woman of twenty-five or thirty nudges them toward ‘Mrs. Robinson’ territory (Coo coo ca-choo), and whether or not they know it they are beginning to shop, squeezing fruit to see what the stand has to offer.

As manhood overtakes him a guy becomes more careful about the shopping experience; he is beginning to realize he might want to buy something. While locking the keys outside the car may be an endearing quality during dating, he may not want to explain the purpose of a door handle to his wife for the rest of his natural life. He is now looking at the whole package … seeking the perfect blend of brains, beauty and body parts!

Once firmly anchored by the bonds of matrimony and with a few temporal miles on their tires, something strange happens. Guys may begin to observe the female form in a way that now disassembles the ‘package’. They have arrived at a point in life where they can appreciate parts … some like casabas while others prefer different diversions like ‘wheels’ and buns. I’m a leg man myself, although I’m a sucker for a slight overbite or a certain glide in a lady’s stride that we of the male chromosome just aren’t hinged to perform. The age range for the recipient of this ocular attention broadens as well.

When I crossed over that proverbial middle age marker, I discovered a world of wonder that ranged from nubile twenty-somethings to feminine preserves of sixty. If you’re not going to buy anything, the world is a Wal-Mart! As my own years continue their forward march so does my age range of suitable subjects, although quality parts are getting harder to find and entire packages are fewer and farther between.

Looking has nothing to do with connubial bliss or with loving one’s spouse. It’s just what guys do. These days, I find myself enjoying a fuller appreciation of womanhood than ever before, all the while maintaining the creative detachment of a sculptor chiseling a statue or a painter capturing the beauty of nature … especially if he jiggles his canvas a little!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

There I was, perched atop a kitchen stool in front of the ‘island’ I so carefully placed when I designed the kitchen … sipping my morning java and watching Vigi prepare to leave for work. My job was to fresh brew and package her coffee. Hers was to build a sandwich, gather together her daily survival gear and find her car keys. She has more getting ready to do than I because she’s the one who is working. As you know by now, I’m retired. I didn’t mean to be, I just am.

As many times as I’ve watched this process, I never noticed the inventive technique to which I was treated this morning. When I make a sandwich, I smear the mustard and horseradish sauce [or whatever] onto a slice of bread, pile on the meat and put a lid on it. Then I cut the stack roughly in half and it’s ready to eat. Case closed.

Not Veege. I watched in wonder as she placed the designated top and bottom slices of bread side by side in butterfly fashion. After careful condiment application to each piece, she proceeded to place one slice of cold-cut onto each slice of bread … then another and another until she had two perfectly symmetrical sandwich halves, topped with a slice of cheese equally divided between the two halves. I asked, “Are you going to close that thing or do you eat it open faced?” “Oh, I’m going to close it,” she replied as she deftly balanced the two halves together, tongue between teeth for added concentration.

Now my curiosity was aroused and I pressed, “Why do you make two halves separately if you’re going to put them together and make a single sandwich anyway?” The answer arrived on an illuminating light ray at 286,000 miles-per-second from the planet Neptune, “I like the cheese to be exactly in the center.” “Aren’t you afraid of spilling something when you have it all vertical like that?” I foolishly asked. By now I was fighting a grin and resisting the urge to delve into this at a deeper, more psychological level but years of experience have taught me when to thrust and when to parry … this was parry time. I’m a pretty good learner.  “Nothing has fallen out yet and I do this all the time” she smiled with girlish confidence, wrapping the sandwich to go. She didn’t even cut it in half! Virgos!

I was capping her coffee and inserting a straw, so she could more easily keep one eye on the road while the other searched for the next sip, when I noticed her application of the ‘church-key’ to the large V-8 can. Me? I punch two holes in the top like everyone else. You have to so the air can push the liquid out smoothly, right? However, I punch one large hole for the juice and only a small vent hole, so if I become overly enthusiastic about my pouring nothing dribbles out of the vent.

Not Veege. She carefully created two holes of equal size and made doubly sure that each was fully open. At that moment, I was more proud of myself than I’ve been in a very long time. I asked nothing. I said nothing … except for, “Can I have some?” as I quietly held out my glass. The crimson blend of nine or ten thousand liquified vegetables ‘plopped’ when she poured it.

Now, this is in the same league as whether the toilet paper should come off the top or bottom of the roll, how someone squeezes the toothpaste tube or who leaves that small starfield on the bathroom mirror when they brush their teeth. It’s stupid stuff … but these are the kinds of discoveries usually reserved only for newlyweds. When each of you can each still learn little things about the other after 33 years, another layer of the proverbial onion peels away and that’s what keeps the music playing. As long as there’s a smattering of mystery swirling just below the surface, like the song says, “The music never ends!”

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.