Alpha Numeric (For Good Measure)

The other day RJ and I talked about sex.

I acknowledged that I was aware he was not getting as much as he would like, and there was guilt.

Not intending to create additional guilt, he said, "I have only about 15 years (of sex) left."

I was shocked and sad at the same time. And also feeling a bit absurd. "You've done the math!" I exclaimed.

"So you expect to have sex up till age 80," I added after having done the math too. (RJ would correct me in that it is arithmetic, not math. Then I would say but isn't arithmetic a subset of math?)

RJ expressed that it was reasonable. I agreed. But... the number just made me sadder, realizing it was not a lot of time.

RJ has always half joked about foreseeing longevity because the life expectancy in his family has been high for generations. Sometimes I do the math on how many anniversaries I can count on. The conclusion is the same: not a lot. Not enough.

That's what you get when you meet later in life. At the time, I was near 40. In my head I had been 40 a while. RJ looked really good for his age (I hate that expression). I thought he was 50, maybe slightly over. Not a problem.

Turned out there were 17 years between us. Was it a lot? Doesn't matter when you're older? Depends on whom you ask.

But we were so similar in temperament and emotional age (I guess?) and we shared plenty pertaining to the outlook on life that it just worked. Seamlessly and happily.

And, yes, we fucked like minks.

When I see people blast their 40th and 50th anniversaries on social media I think, RJ and I will never have those. It is realistic to hope for a 20th. Lucky if we get a 30th.

That's what you get when you meet later in life.

There was a time, not long ago, when 65 sounded so old. RJ will turn 65 this year. And I don't look at him and see "old". I see the brilliant, fun, tender and unique person I fell in love with. The cliché does apply: age is just a number.

I am counting down to myself turning 65 these days, to retirement.

Some couples look forward to retiring and traveling the world together. When I retire, RJ will be 82, two years past the projected sex brim. Can he travel? Will he? Will he want to? Will we have stopped having sex? If you travel but don't have sex, isn't that sad?

So many unknowns. When I wonder out loud about these aspects of our future, though (not in so many words), RJ will remind me: Who's to say he'll go first? True.

When I decided to be with him because it was so obvious because I wanted to, because it felt good to the core, I didn't do any math in my head. I dove in.

Perhaps I was a fool then. Or perhaps this kind of math is for fools.

Gorge

Had an inflammation, needed antibiotics. While waiting at the pharmacy, grabbed a healthy snack that was nuts as I'd need to eat prior to taking meds.

Came home and excitedly waved my bag of salted pistachios at RJ. "Shelled!" I announced, big smile, wide eyes.

"But that is the fun part!" Replied RJ.

I felt sad then. "I used to feel that way," I said.

I was taken back to a fond memory of my mother, my brother W and me sitting around cracking open pistachios. Pistachios were a novelty then, a new import from the U.S. of A. I wouldn't have imagined that years later I'd be living where those pistachios had come from.

"Happy nuts", my mother called pistachios. (And other Canto-speakers did, too. But it didn't matter.) Because they appeared to be grinning.

Cutest thing!

It was gratifying to peel them one by one, stuff each precious morsel in your mouth, until your tender fingertips hurt and you didn't care. You kept going. And it was oddly satisfying to watch a heap of moonlight-shade shells grow on our glass-lined dining table, debris and all. My mother has OCD and that must have been a rare occasion of a devil-may-care attitude of hers toward what would generally be considered a mess.

Of course, I didn't know what OCD was, or that my mother had it. All I remember is savoring the umami in my mouth. It was the taste of happiness. I don't recall speaking much at the table while enjoying pistachios, but, if that wasn't love!

I don't have many memories of genuine bonding with my mother and this was one of them.

I recall that W was the one who introduced me to shelled pistachios, decades later. He could chuck a voluminous helping in one sitting. Nothing to pop, nothing to clean up. How convenient! We agreed.

I had forgotten the joy of shelling pistachios.

Have W and I both eschewed the peeling ritual because our mother is not in the vicinity to participate? I am not certain.

And by not in the vicinity, it's more like an ocean apart. Not having my parents near - I am not sure I am ever getting over the sense of loss. And the overwhelming sadness that comes with it that I have denied for over thirty years.

There is no reconciliation. Just the relief of having cherished memories. No much relief, really.