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.