Love Advice: After Forty Everything Is Much More Complicated. Very Interesting Article.
My friend and I were discussing how sex has become more complicated after 40. Or rather, she was telling me, and I was listening and feeling sad.
Love Advice: After Forty, Everything is Much More Complicated. Very Interesting Article.
After forty, everything is much more complicated. Very interesting article. My friend and I were discussing how sex has become more complicated after 40. Or rather, she was telling me, and I was listening and feeling sad. How was it in my youth? Passion, hormones, and “Oh, just not me!!!” But after forty, everything is much more complicated. Firstly, you are “not sixteen and not the first,” which means you will be stubborn for a month.
Well, so that he doesn’t think that you’re some kind of easy prey. No, flowers and gifts are not necessary in principle, but you still need them. If you’re not an asshole. Restaurants, photo biennales, Van Gogh exhibitions, conversations about Silver Age poetry, and Akunin.
Okay, let’s say he’s not an asshole. He’s a good man; you can go visit. And you go. And from the doorway, you start to spot all sorts of signs of female residents in this area.
Even if a man thinks that his ex took everything, including even the magnets from the refrigerator, he is mistaken. There will definitely be cotton pads lying around in the bathroom, pencils that have rolled under the washing machine, and a mug with the inscription “My male Vova!” in the kitchen.
And you’re like, Yeah, I recently had a falling out with my woman. On the one hand, that’s good; on the other hand, he’s a pain in the ass. The woman will sit there for a while, wait until Friday, get drunk, and start calling and crying, “Vova, I’m in ship; take me away from here!” – and Vova will rush to take her because the feelings haven’t cooled down yet and all that. And the mug, again. And they’ll tell you: Baby, I’m sorry, I still love her.
So you need to be on your guard.
What else can be burned in a jiffy? A pile of socks under the chair. So he’s used to the fact that his woman usually scoops it all out, curses at it, and washes it. A dependent man. A real shitty man, that’s all. Unreliable. He crossed out Van Gogh and Akunin all at once.
If you’re lucky, you can find a place where a guy keeps his medicine. Because every guy has medicine. And it’s okay if it’s analgin or aspirin.
And sometimes there is such a first aid kit there that you get stuck like a Pentium alone: for diarrhea and constipation, and Viagra, and Trichopolum with nystatin, and ointment for lichen, and suppositories for hemorrhoids, and a bucket of valid.
And everything is immediately clear with him: the stomach is weak, the heart too; the rest is generally scary to even think about. And it is not worth it, and everything is sick. Plus, hemorrhoids and lichen are questionable.
How can you start a relationship with someone like that? And get married? No way. You have to get out of here under any pretext. Except for the pretext: “I have a headache.” This pharmacist will immediately feed you all his validols and pyramids, of which he has a cart. So you have to lie about the boiled-over milk and the iron.
The opposite situation is with the woman who was visited by a man. At this point, my friend and I listed all the shameful female failures, including a triple-push-up bra hanging in the bathroom, cream for varicose veins, blood pressure pills, a thermal mask for cellulite, shampoo for baldness, and a wig on a three-liter jar. That is, pretending to be a young, healthy, cellulite-free, and lush-haired girl definitely didn’t work out.
And you can’t foresee everything. You can screw up on anything. That’s why normal people over 40 prefer dates in hotels or rented apartments.
And how to live in general? How do you create families? Everyone is already so smart and savvy, with a keen eye. And there are no mysteries for you—neither in a woman nor in a man.
One thing is good: love does exist. And if it does, then you don’t give a damn about his medicine cabinet, his mug, or his socks. And he doesn’t give a damn about the cream for varicose veins or the foam rubber in your bra, which is more than in a sofa.
I don’t believe in love that happens at 18, I believe in the kind that happens after 40. I think there’s no need to explain why. Love to everyone.
