A Trip to the Middle East

OK, so this video has been making the rounds. And it's been criticized for perhaps being racially biased (i.e., they edited out the white guys).

And here is a typical manospherian response:

Matt Forney retweeted

Kirill Was Here @KirillWasHere  ·  4h 4 hours ago

Being called a slut is a compliment. American feminists need to take a trip to the Middle East to see how bad women really have it.

OK, Mr. KirillWasHere, I am an American woman who spent ten fucking years in the Middle East (Afghanistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Yemen), and guess what? It was pretty much the same damn thing.

One day I was strolling down the streets of Teheran with a male colleague. All along the route, we heard the hiss of "coos... coos... coos..." (= cunt... cunt... cunt...)

"My gawd, Cinzia," my colleague said. "Is it like this every time you walk down the street?"

Well, yup, it was, which is why I took to wearing a chador when I went out. If I could have managed to pass as a man (as another British teacher did with her anorak and slim hips) I would have done that instead, but presenting myself as a pious Muslim woman was the best I could do. Disguising myself in a swath of black nylon didn't eliminate the harassment entirely, but it kept it down to a dull, manageable roar.

Now that I'm identifiably post-menopausal, I am no longer the victim of this kind of walking nightmare forced to walk a gauntlet every time I venture forth in public. And no, I don't "miss" being cat-called in the street. Being ignored in public is one of the few consolations of becoming a crone ( = invisible to the Masculine Gaze). Having one's sexuality acknowledged by John Q. Public is not a compliment, it's simply harassment. 

This iconic photo from the fifties speaks as powerfully as last week's video, doesn't it?

Nothing new here. And no, I don't think she's enjoying that attention one bit.

Giving Away My Age

I'm trying, but old habits die hard.

A Woman of Property

My greatest regret in my long life as a barren spinster-slut is that I failed to take my father's advice in 1988. I had just returned from a teaching stint in Saudi Arabia with a modest nest egg of $25,000. He suggested I use the money to snap up a condo in the Denny Regrade area of Seattle. I resisted; I didn't feel ready to take on the responsibilities of property ownership because I was so unsettled in my personal and professional life. I had a vague, screwy notion common among women my generation that I should wait until I was "settled" (married?) before acquiring my own house. Big mistake! How was I to know that ten years later seedy Denny Regrade would morph into ultra-hip Belltown? I could have practically retired from the sale of that property alone. Argh!

Ten years later, when I relocated to Seattle, I had the opportunity to buy a nice little fixer-upper in Ballard (another gentrified area near the city center) for about $65,000. Again, I dragged my heels. Of course, today, that same property is going for $400,000+.   

Finally, I took the plunge and bought the house I am living in now. It was right before the housing bubble crested, so I didn't make a killing -- but nor did I lose even when the market inevitably crashed. It's a pleasant little house in a pleasant little suburb, very convenient to my job, and it has served me well. It's no McMansion, but rather the sort of housing that will always appeal to young families, retired couples, or singletons like me. It's fifteen minutes from downtown Seattle and is considered a safe, quiet place to raise a family.

When my mother passed away, she left me a small inheritance that allowed me to finish paying off my mortgage. Suze Orman is right about this: Nothing beats the psychological security of owning your own home free and clear. Not having a mortgage payment also helped me live comfortably on a low salary while continuing to sock away ten percent of my income in tax-free retirement savings, even as I indulged my taste for travel and other small luxuries.

A couple of months ago, my partner (a former contractor, she has an eye for real estate) noticed a HUD duplex had gone on the market at a very tempting price. She strongly urged me to take the leap and establish a real estate "portfolio." Being a HUD property, the duplex was a bit down on its heels, but my partner assured me that it really only needed some cosmetic improvements, which she would be able to perform, or at least oversee. It's located across the street from an elementary school and on a major bus line. Again, it's perfect for young families, retired couples, or professional singletons. Plus it's zoned for commercial development, which makes for some interesting future potential if the area continues to grow. I tried to resist, but it didn't seem like I could lose on this deal, so I acquiesced to my partner's demands and put in a loan application.

Anyone who has bought a property through HUD recently knows the paperwork is formidable. The past month I thought I would go out of my mind getting qualified for a mortgage. Everyone held my hand and assured me, in the long run, it would be worth the intense hassle. The fact that I'd paid off my previous mortgage, had sterling credit and no debt helped, of course. Seriously, how could they turn me down?

This weekend I became the proud owner of a rental property. It's a little scary taking on a mortgage again. Financially, I'm very conservative, thanks to Depression Era parents, and have always (just) managed to live within my very limited means. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we'll have the duplex whipped into rent-worthy shape in the next several weeks. Ultimately, I'll have two rental houses providing a "semi-passive" source of income in my dotage. My partner also has a couple of rental properties, so between the two us, her small Navy pension and my job, we should do all right.

As the author of bodycrimes recently pointed out, one of the ways that marriage benefits men (and women) is that it often prompts them to put down roots in the form of real estate. Real estate is a kind of forced savings program that, if one is lucky and astute, can really pay off in the long haul. Buying and fixing up residential properties is how my paternal grandparents lifted themselves out of the grinding poverty of the thirties. And my partner's parents, working-class folk who scrabbled for their livings and never dreamed of playing the stock market, were able to leave a significant estate to their children in the form of savvy real estate investments. 

They bought what they understood: modest residences or empty waterfront lots that, back in the sixties, went for a song. Sometimes they miscalculated (one riverfront property has now been lost to the vagaries of the Snohomish, for example) but overall and over time, they did very well. The irony of that generation is, of course, that they wound up spending the last decade of their lives sitting on a million dollars while continuing to clip coupons and rejecting out of hand such minor treats as a trip to Hawaii as "too expensive." Self-denial had become such a firmly entrenched element of their life styles that they could no longer live any other way.

Of course, what I failed to realize in the folly of my youth is that one does not have to wait to marry to invest in real estate. Young women are waking up to this. An acquaintance who sells downtown condos reports that at least 75% of his clients these days are single women. No marriage is as permanent or secure as a deed. And frankly, back when I was dating, most men thought it was kind of attractive that I owned my own home. Contrary to what the manosphereans will tell you, a typical man is pleased to discover that the woman he fancies is also "a woman of property."

I've never been particularly frugal except insofar as necessity dictated. I spend what I have, but I don't accumulate debt. When the cash runs out, the spending stops. I buy used cars, I pay in cash, and drive them until they are dead. And I'm not a risk-taker, nor am I an optimistic person who believes that if it's not raining today it won't rain tomorrow. In fact, I'm a person who keeps a six month supply of canned goods (and spirits) at all times.

And I'm not anticipating a lavish lifestyle in my retirement. I will be happy to continue to live modestly at the same level I do now. Honestly, all I need to be perfectly comfortable is plenty of hot water, access to a public library and decent medical care, and quality food and drink. All I need to feel "successful" in life is the sense I am contributing to my community, and that I am loved and appreciated by those I love and respect. I don't want to be a burden; I'd like to leave a little more than I took. If a few good people remember me fondly after I've gone, I reckon my life will have been "successful" enough.

I am optimistic that I have moved one step closer to my goal this weekend.

What's Your Name? Who's Your Daddy?

One of the most cherished delusions of the manosphere is that women "hit the wall" (somewhere at the tail end of their twenties), while men go on and on and on, just getting more deliciously seasoned with age.  Apparently, this may not be true.  According to The Daily Mail, the age at which most men become "invisible" to younger women is 39.  Yep, that's the age at which girls begin to perceive men as "father figures." And who wants to be ogled by Daddy? I mean, like, ee-yewww... 

Roosh himself acknowledged recently that the party doesn't go on forever, even for experts of game:

No matter how good your game gets, a 23-year-old girl will have less primal attraction for your 53-year-old self than when you were 33. This suggests that there is definitely a peak for men, and while there is some argument about the exact age, consensus among men I’ve talked to suggests it’s around 43.

43? When I was 23, I thought 30 was plenty older, and 43 downright "old." But perhaps Roosh has a few good years of chasing nubile young poosy before he has to either "settle" or "sponsor a gold-digger" (which, unless he plans to come into an inheritance, he'll be hard-pressed to do on the slender living he ekes out from hawking his wretched little rape manuals). Hope he's making the best of his time in Russia, cuz any way you slice it, Roosh, it's all downhill from here...

Hitting the Wall Softly

It goes without saying that I am so far beyond "The Wall," I am practically knocking on Heaven's Gate. But if The Wall is defined as the moment a woman realizes that she no longer commands the Male Gaze, I reckon I didn't hit it until I was in my early forties. I was about 45 when, for the first time in my adult life, I found I could walk into a bar unaccompanied and nurse a drink for a full hour in uninterrupted solitude.  Suddenly -- it seemed overnight -- I was as invisible as a ghost, passing unseen in streets, browsing undetected in stores, attracting neither positive nor negative attention everywhere I went.

As we all know, it is a basic tenet of the manosphere that American women spend their twenties "riding the cock carousel" until they see thirty candles on their cake, and realize the day has come when they must resign themselves to dusty spinsterhood, fill the yawning void of their barren lives with either cats or sperm-jacked infants -- or else settle for some "beta" chump and start pumping out the requisite 2.5 kids to fill a tract house in the suburbs. You know, I really have no right to deride Roosh for extending his own adolescence into his mid-thirties; I did exactly the same thing. I was at least 35 when it dawned on me that maybe I should start looking around for an agreeable man to knock me up. Oops!

Fortunately, Roosh has had a revelation: "The Wall Is Softer Than We Think."  Which is good news for older women, bad news for guys like Roosh: "The wall for women is more like a speed bump that any woman with half a brain can easily pass at high speed."

You see, savvy spinsters 35-85 have technology to efficiently sift through the remainder bins of available mates, "while forcing the bottom 90% of men to lower themselves through clown game or copy pasta begging on OK Cupid." It's true that a male friend of mine who dipped his toe in Our Time reported a rush of attention --  primarily from the septuagenarian ladies.

"We all want to believe that women will be punished for their bad decisions in life, because there’s no doubt that as men we are punished for ours." Hmm... I'm not sure which "bad decisions" Roosh feels he is being punished for, but I imagine abandoning a career as a biologist in order to pursue "poosy" full-time -- and then blogging about it under his real name -- must be among them. Double oops!

"We want to think that women will be reprimanded for passing on good men in their prime to have sex with bad boys who don’t care about them. But very few will. They will have their cake and eat it too, simply because they have a vagina in a time and place where vagina has the highest value it has ever had." Hey, does this mean we're heading for a "vagina bubble" in the near future?  How will a "vagina crash" impact the global economy? (As for having my cake and eating it too, that reminds me: I still have some left over from my birthday in the freezer. Yay me!)

"In my recent stay in America I was shocked to see the nearly unlimited choice that women over 30 still have to at least get sex, and if you tell them about the wall they would not understand what you speak of. The wall, we must now admit to ourselves, has just as much power in our minds as in reality." Actually, Roosh has been stewing about Elder Sluts for years.

"There will be no redemption. There will be no comeuppance. For most of their lives, women will have it easier than us..." 

I don't know about that. The opportunity to get laid any night of the week does not necessarily "the good life" make. And furthermore, I see little evidence that one gender has it much harder than the other, and how would one quantify respective degrees of hardship, and what does it matter anyway? I used to think that wearing heels and hose everyday was a far greater burden than having to shave every morning or change my own tires. Now I'm compulsively plucking my chin hairs and wearing flat, velcro-strapped mary janes with everything I own like some superannuated toddler, so... 

Let's just agree that being a human is hard, and that sooner or later, everyone eats his (or her) peck of shit. We all have needs, sometimes competing needs: the need for freedom, the need for security; the need for recognition, the need for privacy; the need to find love, the pain of losing that love. We all get old -- that is, if we're lucky -- and we all will experience the physical deterioration that is part of the normal aging process. It's tempting to envy the heirs to great fortunes and Hollywood stars for their "easy" lives, but even Casey Kasem, grossly neglected by his once beautiful blonde trophy wife, died, in the end, of a bedsore. 

"The truth is that any woman who rejects me today will never regret it."

Now that I believe! I'll even take it so far as to declare that any woman who "bangs" Roosh will always regret it.

But getting back to "the wall" metaphor, it occurs to me that what we often think of as "walls" really are more like "doors." About a decade ago, I went out the door of youthful, fertile femininity and emerged in another country called Middle Age Cronedom. Once I had overcome the "culture shock," I began to perceive certain advantages of escaping the male gaze, a freedom and dignity that I had only hitherto experienced as a small child or when wearing an abaya and veil in the middle east. This new "invisibility" can be exhilarating, not unlike discovering a latent "super power." Security and customs officials wave me through lines without meeting my eyes; I wouldn't be altogether surprised to discover that security cameras can no longer capture my image. Certainly, this is the time in my life to consider a second career as a world-class thief, con artist, or terrorist. Strange men, who no longer find me sexually viable, either ignore me completely or initiate oddly frank and self-disclosing conversations: I have, it appears, become everyone's favorite maiden aunt. Students have become more respectful as I have become more direct and authoritative. I can get away with all sorts of bossy behaviors and displays of temperament without causing offense. Although I care less about being found "pleasing," I am certainly kinder in my intentions. In short, an aging female finally enjoys the opportunity to be her most authentic self.

I'm happily coupled and hope to remain so for the rest of my life, but if I were to find myself a lonely singleton, I would have pretty much the same options I had twenty years ago. I could look for a new love amongst my current social circle, or once more brave the trenches of online dating. The same choices are there, although given that I am not the same person with the same needs I had at 35 or 40, I might choose another path altogether: I could simply embrace the joys of single life. After all, what more does anyone need to be happy than a little dog, a stack of books, music to listen to, a small garden to tend, and meals occasionally enlivened by wine and conversation?

It Would Be So Nice If You Weren't Here

A close friend, soon to turn 65, reported a kerfuffle he'd had with a neighbor.  The neighbor, a 30-something employee of a local high tech firm, had removed the stakes that marked the lines between their properties.  My friend complained; and furthermore, he complained that the young neighbor had been throwing his yard waste onto my friend's property.

During the course of their heated exchange, the younger neighbor told my friend, "Go home, old man!"

My friend was deeply wounded by this remark.  It was the first time that he had been called "an old man."  

I told him that the answer was to have a survey done, the legal property line re-established, and then to have a privacy fence constructed post-haste to prevent any further conflicts with this ass-hat neighbor.

The next day my friend reported that he'd heeded my advice, but that the local surveyor was already at work establishing the legal property line -- at the young neighbor's bequest.  "Fine!"  I said.  "You're already ahead of the game!  Let him pay to have the property line established!  Then all you need to do is erect a fence along that boundary."

"Good fences make good neighbors," at least according to Robert Frost.  So it would seem that the "problem" was soon to be solved.

I will say that the young neighbor was not only mean, but shockingly short-sighted.  I have always strived (despite provocation) to maintain a cordial relationship with my neighbors, if for no other reason than that we never know when we will need their help.  But he is young, after all, and probably has never lived anywhere for longer than a year or two.  What does he know of the reality of communities?

So today, I was entering the building where I work.  I had to walk around a couple of young people (late teens / early twenties) loitering on the steps, listening to music.  As I passed, I heard the young woman say, "What's with all the old people around here?"  I looked around: there was no one else in sight.  "Are you talking about me?"  I asked.  The girl hung her head in embarrassment and said nothing.  Perhaps she had assumed that I -- at the advanced age of 58 -- was so deaf with age that I wouldn't hear her.  

"I hear you," I sympathized.  "We're everywhere, aren't we?  And more of us, everyday!"  I laughed, and went on.  

But I was roiling with age and boiling with rage by the time I got to my class.  I know this because I immediately told the story to my students ("leaking" my anger, once again).  They responded with little outrage on my behalf, but some sympathy.  Their pity made me angrier yet.

But note to self:  This resentment is bound to grow as Baby Boomers -- arguably the most entitled generation ever -- consume ever more resources, and insist on being kept in the style to which they are accustomed at the expense of the Millennials.

"We need to look look into retiring in Ecuador," I told my friend.

You think I'm kidding?

Get A Load of Those Shoulders!

Whether perusing the manosphere or more, uhm, mainstream masculine spaces, a woman might conclude that men are just slaves to women's asses.  Or tits.  Or legs (which are always supposed to "go up to there," wherever "there" is). 

These standard criteria for judging feminine beauty have always troubled me.  In my winsome youth, I was the girl for whom the expression "Such a pretty face...!" was coined.  Seriously, from the neck up?  I was gorgeous.  But, sadly, full-length photos (or mirrors) were never my friends.

Although my face (even pushing sixty) is assessed as "attractive" by a few, and "pleasant" by most, my ass has always been mediocre at best.  My tits, though once bodacious, are well past their expiration date(s) -- although I can still summon formidable cleavage with adequate support.  And as for my legs?  Let's just say that there was a reason I was called "Stumpy" by a few of my crueler grade school peers.* 

What with my calcaneal bone spurs and ever-falling arches, I can no longer even flash what Victorian gents might have wistfully referred to as a "well-turned ankle."

So I hardly need tell you that I was downright thrilled to read on Julian O'Dea's website that there are men out there who are most enthralled by a pair of shapely feminine... shoulders.

Finally!  A category of Feminine Beauty Olympics I can compete in!

Because, folks, I don't mind telling you:  I have awesome shoulders.  First of all, they are rather narrow (which makes fitting clothes, at 200#+, a real bitch).  They are lightly muscled (yes, I can still bench press my own weight), but smooth and plump, with no discernible underlying bony structure.  My skin is flawless, thanks to a life-long scrupulous regime of Jack Daniels, minimal UV exposure & motel room soap.

My exceptionally attractive shoulders compelled me to seek "cold shoulder" fashions long before (and after) this style enjoyed its brief heyday.  My greatest frustration in life is that acceptable professional attire does not include strapless dresses or halter tops.
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* The upside?  "Learning to fall" in ski bunny class was a lead pipe cinch, given my extraordinarily low center of gravity.

And Yet We Outlive Men!

Over at the Inner Sanctum of Il Douche, "Scorpion" weighs in on a female writer I haven't heard about for decades.  (Scorpion is an enthusiastic participant there, having posted over 1300 comments in three years.)  Scorpion is in a state of high dudgeon over author Elizabeth Wurtzel.  If you don't recognize the name, don't feel bad.  Her only main claim to fame is her 1994 best-seller, Prozac Nation, which no one references any more because... Hello! It's now 2014!  (Although, to be fair, a lot of folks are still taking Prozac.)   

"She really is completely obsessed with herself," he fumes.  And you know what, Scorpion?  I couldn't agree more:  Wurtzel is one female writer to whom the manosphere's favorite descriptors of women -- that they are "narcissistic" and "solipsistic" -- fairly apply.  

I remember having a go at Prozac Nation when it was first published, while visiting my sister.  She had thoughtfully left it on the night table for me as a little bedtime reading, but within the first chapter, I found myself disliking the author so much that I had to plod into the living room to find an old National Geographic to nod off to instead.

Scorpion continues:  "Women literally go insane if they don't have the stability of a man in their life, or the purpose provided by motherhood. They just lose themselves in their own minds, overcome by their solipsism. Without a husband and children, the middle-aged and beyond a woman literally has no purpose for existence. She is just sort of there, consuming resources for her own enjoyment."

As I take in those last two lines, I take in the bitter reality of my own wasted life.

Because I have to admit, this has been one day like countless others when I haven't accomplished a damn thing beyond getting my nails done and making an impressive dent in the Valentine's Day chocolate my sweetie presented me with yesterday.

And I'm clean out of Prozac.
 
"This ultimately leads to extreme self-loathing, which this woman is undoubtedly experiencing... Once the last of her looks fade, she will literally be left with nothing but cats, wine and memories of her youthful whoredom."  

It then occurs to me that a glass of blackberry wine would be just the thing to finish off my chocolate orgy.  I'll first have to kick my way through a pack of sleeping hounds to reach the kitchen though: 

"Another wasted life. Another victim of feminism."

Hey Fat Chick!

My only concessions to vanity these days are (1) having my hair professionally colored on a strict monthly regime, and (2) biweekly manicures to maintain my "perfect" acrylic nails.  I blame the cross dressing circle I sometimes hang out with for the latter indulgence.  Their nails always look fabulous:  I know one cross dressing engineer who sprays his press-ons with model enamel and an air gun.  (Their wigs, sadly, are another story.)  For all I poke fun at the cross-dressers, who sometimes represent to me "the worst of both worlds", they have taught me a lot about how to perform my gender.  (And I knew that I had overdone my makeup when I was identified as a cross dresser in a gay bar once.)

It's not that I've become indifferent to fashion.  I love pretty clothes.  It's simply that I enjoy seeing them on other people as much as wearing them myself.  Maybe that's a function of my age.  As we get older, and our youthful beauty inevitably wanes, we turn outward, away from the mirror.  So we take up gardening, painting, photography, and other hobbies that invite us to look beyond ourselves for visual pleasure.

Unless we're Iris Apfel, that is.

When I was younger, it was an ongoing challenge for me to find fashionable clothing that fit, even though I was only a size 16-18 in college.  In high school, it wasn't being fat that held me back socially so much as not having the proper clothes to wear for dances and sports.  As a result, I learned to configure "uniforms" that basically consisted of jerseys and jeans, or black knit pants and blazers that could have doubled as kevlar armor.  I managed to look presentable (albeit a bit matronly), but dressing remained a chore, never a pleasurable means of self-expression.

That's why I find the young "fatshionistas" (of widely varying degrees of girth) on blogs like Hey Fat Chick fun to follow.  Most of their get-ups would not be "age appropriate" for me (i.e., too too short), but sometimes I get ideas about what I could wear, and where I could obtain such items. And I'm always inspired by their gumption, their joyful defiance, their refusal to be repressed, ignored, or "shamed."

A young fat woman nowadays has an array of choices that would have boggled my mind thirty years ago.  (Unfortunately it is also true that unless she lives in a large city, she still must shop primarily online, which requires its own skill set.) And although I am not a "fat apologist" by any means, I celebrate that young women of all sizes can enjoy dressing in ways that exercise their creativity and make them feel good in their own skins. 

Dinosaurs

In response to my comment that the only way I can cope with the MRA/PUA crowd is to remind myself that they are merely dinosaurs bellowing piteously as they lurch into oblivion, a clever blogger who also comments on Manboobz posted a link to the "Extinction" scene in Disney's "Fantasia." 

As I watched it, I realized that I'd seen this before, and that the visual image I was describing had been formed and implanted in my brain while watching "Fantasia" as a child  fifty years ago.  

I find myself muttering "Dinosaurs!" a lot these days, and usually in reference to people more or less my own age -- which is not so very old, mind you -- who can't or won't grasp that the greater social environment has changed, and however much they moan and roar, it's not ever going back to accommodate them.  I cannot remember the exact quote, but something like "shuffling backwards into the future" comes to mind.

And I ought to know.  Every day, I'm painfully aware of my increasing obsolescence.  It hasn't been a smooth, gradual decline either:  within the last decade, I went from being at the top of my game (whatever game you can think of) to playing bingo with a hearing aid in the back of a church basement (figuratively).

The bitch of it is, I know how tiresome I am being whenever I launch into a story about the ways things were -- I can see it in my students' and younger colleagues' eyes -- yet I cannot stop myself.  I want them to know.  I have something important to share here: the ways things are compared to the way things were.  I was there!  I know!

It doesn't matter what the topic is:  abortion, feminism, Islam, neighborhoods, technology.  Whatever, I must dive in and insert my historical perspective.  Because that is all I have to offer now.  And I cannot bear to be completely silenced, not yet. 

The Fokken Twins: Two Women I Love

The other night I watched a documentary on Netstream about Louise and Martine Fokken.  I was afraid a documentary about geriatric sex workers might be depressing, but in fact I found it very uplifting.  I defy anyone with half a heart not to fall in love with these old Dutch bawds.

So what's to love about a pair of 69 year old prostitutes?

In a word:  Love itself.  The love they have for each other, the love they have for their children and for their spoiled-rotten-Chihuahua, and, most inspiring, the love they have for their clients (that is, "the kind gentlemen," not "the punters").  Their love for color, fashion, food, nature, and painting.  Their Love for Life Itself. 

How do such generous spirits survive, nay flourish, after fifty years in the Red Light District of Amsterdam?  I'm in awe...

The Arrogance of Youth

One of the tropes of the New Misogynists is that attractive "quality" women, with their impossibly high standards, often miss the boat.  They turn thirty (or forty, or whatever), only to find themselves alone on the dock, all weathered and nasty and flea-bitten, while the ship of true happiness (a marriage to one of them, presumably) sails away. 

In Roosh's forum, he reproduced a post from "Date Lab" from a very attractive middle aged blonde named "Carla" who was reporting that she had recently met a nice fellow.  My response to Roosh's snark attack follows.  

Date Lab: 53 y/o woman wants magical spark
Author	Message

Roosh Innovative Casanova Posts: 8,346 Joined: Aug 2008 Reputation: 91

Roosh snark:  53 year old women still have standards? Carla quote: I told [her new beau] I’m trying to figure out why it took [Date Lab] so long to find someone for me Roosh snark: Not all mysteries of the universe will be solved. Carla quote: Definitely similar sense of humor. [That’s] important to me. A lot of guys don’t get my humor. Roosh snark: If enough people don't get your humor, at what point is it time to accept you don't have it? Carla quote: I didn’t feel a chemical attraction or that spark where sometimes you know right away. Roosh snark: This bitch is almost dead and still waiting for the spark!    (See what I mean about the braying donkey?) --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Unless she's been diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer, a 53 year old woman is hardly "almost dead."  Statistically, she is likely to live another 35 years, and statistically she is likely to outlive her male partner.  She could very well outlive you, Roosh. Wouldn't that be a burn!  But who among us knows when he is going to die?  (Note -- topic for my other blog.) I do see from her picture (which I have deleted to respect her privacy) that, although she's two years older than her new beau, she looks a decade younger.  In fact, she's an attractive woman for any age, and I'll bet he's feeling very lucky to have met her.  Is that what bothers you Roosh?  That a woman old enough to be your mother is sexually viable? But here's the truth:  Love is precious at any stage of life. And as long as we're alive, and our hearts are open, and the desire is there, life is full of endless possibilities for love.  Here's something else I want to say, Roosh, and you may choose not to believe it, but the fact is, A woman can always get laid.  Yup, you heard me right:  If a woman wants sex (and only sex), it hardly matters how old she is.  As distasteful as it is, them's the realities of the sexual marketplace: ladies' choice, men's opportunity.  Sorry about that! Hell, I'm even older than the lady above plus I'm fat, and if all I wanted was a Casual Encounter, it would take me about thirty minutes to arrange one.  Not only can an older woman get laid, she can be loved.  It's rather harder -- at any age -- but I also know this, from personal experience, to be true. I'm not sure why evidence that people over fifty seek -- and often find -- "that spark" vexes you.  I would rather that it encouraged you.  You are approaching middle age yourself.  Aging is tough regardless of gender.  Is that why you're scared? And as for referring to a woman your mother's age as "the bitch..."  May I remind you that you are not an adolescent anymore?  Do you still talk like that to your mother?