Yesterday,
we celebrated my 47th birthday. It’s a nothing-burger of a number,
so undramatic that I actually forgot my age. Sheri had to remind me. Turns out
I’m younger than I thought.
But
am I young enough to have a crush on a 19-year-old woman? Or is it creepy? Does
it make a difference if she’s my wife?
But
she’s not 19. She’s 63. And when this photo was taken I was still pooping my
pants and saying “No!” a lot.
I’ve
written before about how Sheri in her 20s would never have paid a twenty-something me much attention. Sheri at 19, though, the young woman who is hurtling down
this hill – she might have liked a 19-year-old me, and I her. She is so much the
woman I love, before she is distracted by dangerous men in her twenties. Her
world is all sun and sand and picnic benches at the hill’s bottom, and earnest
joy.
But
we didn’t meet, and couldn’t have, and so, in a strange way, all I’m allowed is
a crush on her from a distance of some 44 years.
Sheri
doesn’t seem jealous of the way I fancy her younger self. That makes sense. She’s
still married to the 47-year-old me, and that won’t change. And the part of me
that’s smitten with a 19-year-old Sheri isn’t the part that’s here with her
now, and married, and which on my birthday hiked alongside her for five miles over
a central Maryland mountain. The part of me that’s smitten isn’t even sitting
at my office desk admiring her in black-and-white. It’s 19-years-old, just as
she is, and watching her from a picnic bench in Michigan in 1967, pleased and
hopeful and impossible.
Hey, that sort of smitten is pretty fluid. I could be smitten by her too~not in a sexualized way, but in all the life's possibilities & happiness way. ~Mary
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