Ready, willing and oh-so able

There’s an odd phenomenon that happens when a fortysomething woman is newly separated or divorced. I can’t quite explain it, but let’s call it Divine Intervention.
The Boy Toy.
It’s as if God looks down upon us poor women of a certain age — but in the midst our sexual peak — and says, “Although fortysomething-year-old hubby doesn’t want you, twentysomething Boy Toy does. Don’t be fruitful and multiply, but please — go at it.”
I’m not a very religious gal, but it sure made a believer out of me.
Mia found hers at work. Anna hired a handyman from the Yellow Pages and in walked Mr. Hunkalicious. Nadine shopped at Whole Foods and took home a quarter pound of Castelleno cheese and the deli guy. Jennifer dined at a San Rafael restaurant and the maitre d’ decided he’d like to do more than just seat her. For me, it was as easy as this: He moved in down the street just after Rob, my ex, moved out.
He was staying for free in a room in my neighbor’s house in exchange for some fence work while he looked for a permanent place. I noticed him right away — a striking blond, blue-eyed and perfectly buff Jude Law look-alike.
I’d sensed a presence watching me from time to time, and prayed that it wasn’t the 68-year-old homeowner. I started to be a little more careful about how I dressed each day. And I started wearing matching lingerie, too — my mother always told me to wear nice undies “just in case,” but I’m not sure this is what she meant.
“So how are you doing?” my friend Ali asked, calling from the Seattle house she moved to just as my marriage began falling apart. I had imagined I would be supporting her in her new Pacific Northwest life and instead here she was, checking up on me several times a week as I navigated my unexpected new solo life.
“I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I cry all the time, I’ve lost weight and everyone tells me how great I look! But, the most adorable man or boy — I can’t quite tell — moved in down the block.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I think he’s a man. I haven’t had a good enough look at him to figure out if he’s three or just two decades younger than I am.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Yep, and I plan to act on it ASAP. In the meantime, I think I’ll have a very, very good fantasy about him tonight.”
“Sweet dreams ...”
A few days after, I noticed him working outside. It was my chance. Being a good neighbor (and a flirt), I complimented him on his fanciful fence and we started chatting. Well, I know he was talking, but I was so taken by his looks, by the very idea of him, I’m not so sure I was my usual eloquent self.
“So, what’s your name?” I asked, coyly.
“Ian.”
“Ian what?”
“Ian Goodson.”
“Good son? Hmm, well, I’d probably have to ask your mom about that,” I teased.
“There are many ways to be good,” he said, his eyes locking with mine as he gently squeezed my arm.
Let the seduction begin!
As it turns out, Ian was 25. Man enough for me. Our fling was, well, amazing. The split had left me an emotional wreck, a sudden reader of way-too-many self-help books in between my weekly therapy sessions. My life was all too Woody Allen-like. And here was Boy Toy, telling me how beautiful I was and wanting to jump my bones.
What could I do? Like Oscar Wilde said, the only way to resist temptation is to give into it.
He was the first man I had been with other than the man I had been with for 16 years. And although I was separated, I was still technically married. For a few weeks, I walked around in an oxytocin-fueled daze, feeling like Diane Lane surely felt on the train ride home after her first tryst with Olivier Martinez in “Unfaithful.” Boy Toy — 15 years my junior — reeked of all that was illicit, forbidden and naughty. But even if he were my age, just being with someone new is intoxicating. In a way, it makes the lure of an extramarital affair seem understandable, but certainly not justifiable or excusable.
At some point, though, I sadly came to realize that my Boy Toy — just like the fake nails and blond hair streaks I relied on to feel better after my split — had to go. Forgive me, Demi and Ashton, but a Boy Toy does not a relationship make. He was not my life partner. He was not going to stepdad my kid. He was not going to help me through the perimenopausal hell that was sure to start any day. I had to acknowledge that Boy Toy came into my life for one reason only — to help me understand that even though a marriage ended, I was still a desirable person with a lot to offer. He rekindled in me a passion that had been hidden behind years of trying to be the Good Wife and Mother. I had somehow forgotten that I was still the same fun, smart, flirtatious, sensual gal that attracted Rob, my former hubby, in the first place. Unfortunately, he had forgotten it, too.
I knew it was time for me to dive into the muck of my split, go deep into the uncomfortable emotional zone of figuring out just what happened and why, and come out a healthy woman and mother focused on who she is and what she wants. That part is so much clearer now, but it’s still a journey.
And like all journeys, there are memories — good and bad. I’m grateful I have good ones of my lusty Boy Toy days. And talk about the home movies!