Elephants

The problem with dating in your late 50s is that you've got over 40 years of history. You can ignore it, but it's still there. It's part of who you are, and the more you try to suppress it, the more likely it is to pop up at the moment you least expect it—or are the least ready for it.

Your history may be filled with stories of dating and marriage(s). It may be filled with tales of dysfunctional families. It may be good; it may be bad; it may be simply a litany of facts. But it's there. It's the elephant standing in the corner.

(You know the old joke about the elephant?

Where does the 200 ton elephant sit?

Anywhere he wants!

)

I've had lots of dates and lots of marriages. But I've had only one good marriage. My sister-in-law and I were talking the other morning, recounting funny stories from the past, specifically about the years with John, as it was a day when I was remembering him. She was surprised when I told her we had only been married two-and-a-half years. She thought it had been about five. I reminded her that we had only been married six months when he was diagnosed with metastatic prostate cancer. I told her how lucky I feel to have had those happy years. She stopped me; "Jan," she said, "he was lucky to have had you to lean on."

The reason those years are so precious to me is that I was given a most difficult job, and I aced it. I threw myself into the providing of care, and I performed it better than I've ever performed any task. And when your history includes lots of reinforcement of how dumb, ugly and incompetent you are, you tend to hang onto those memories of jobs well done.

John's sister-in-law suggested to me about ten years ago that any man I might be involved with would resent the memories of John, the recounting of history. And yet I try to think back to the various widowers I've known and dated, and I think it's a common practice for widowers to speak fondly of deceased spouses when it was a happy marriage. I don't think I've fictionalized him, as many are prone to do of their late spouses.

The challenge arises when you move into a new relationship, one that you feel holds great potential. How do you honor your memories of what was without denigrating or diminishing what is to be?

How about this analogy: Your memory is like a five liter bottle. That's all the room there is for memories. Good memories weigh more than bad memories, so they sink to the bottom. And new good memories weigh more than old good memories. So you have layers: bad memories on the top; then old good memories; then new good memories. The more new good memories you can amass, the sooner the bad memories will be supplanted, and the sooner the old good memories will be fade and replaced.

The Jazzman is doing a damned good job of giving me new good memories. At this rate, he'll be King of the Bottle very quickly.

Six months ago, I could barely remember how to smile. Now I smile constantly.