I had an “aha” moment recently.
While desperately attempting to analyze why I feel so utterly, ummm, disgusted with “older” men — men my age — I thought about my father and my current attitude about him. Yup. Disgust. Not very positive, I know. In fact, it’s very sad. My father has always been a strong figure in my life. He is now a shell of his former self. He has vascular dementia, which has resulted in pretty much zero short-term memory. He has become feeble and needs to use a walker. His life consists of sitting in his La-Z-Boy. His only joys are eating, sleeping and the dog. According to my mother, he consistently shits his pants. Having a conversation with him is difficult. Even watching an hour-long TV show with him isn’t much fun because by the end he asks,”What was that all about?” He can’t comprehend the story arch because he doesn’t retain anything.
After this aha, I thought back on how my relationship with my dad has changed over my life and how it might’ve corresponded with my love life. Of course, there did appear to be a pattern. Which doesn’t bode well for the future since the next step is, obviously, death. Though in death there can be freedom, a new beginning, so who knows?