think women who fall under the spell of Aphrodite during mid-life are far luckier than the ones who drink the divine juice earlier on. It’s great payback for the years of high school agony, the wild 20’s and the earnest 30’s. The 40’s seem to be the time to cut loose. The body is working better than ever (or can, if nurtured a bit), the brain is still sharp (except for that business of the perpetually misplaced keys), and the kids, hopefully, are old enough that they are no longer a source of total and constant fatigue.
Since the divorce, I’ve found I have a weakness for the men who really love women. Perhaps only complete womanizers are interested enough to look past the boring clothing and the two kids to respond to the cheap-bait sass that comes out of my mouth. Womanizers love me, and I love them back. We twinkle at each other. We fall into each other’s arms like long-lost soul mates. Womanizers totally get me.
Because, I admit, I am kind of a man-izer. I collect men and cherish men and love them all. I am friends with almost every one of my ex-lovers.
So maybe the 40s is when women become man-izers – if they choose to be. Because now we know how to play the game. And we know who always holds the cards: We do.
It’s true no matter what kind of woman you are – an Aphrodite acolyte or the biggest bitch queen in town. It’s true if you’re frigid. It’s true if you could take it or leave it. And it’s true if you’re an honest-to-god horn dog and just want to fornicate like an animal every day of the week. Even then, men need us more than we need them.
Which doesn’t mean that a womanizer will stop womanizing.
And it doesn’t mean that you won’t get your heart broken a million times, just like you did in high school and college.
It just means that we know how to play the game. We are always the dealers. And so we can afford to have a little fun with it.
So, to all the women out there who know what I’m talking about, I’d like us to raise our collective champagne glasses and toast each other heartily. Ride the wave gloriously and strut your stuff. Walk around with a look in your eye that says, “Hey, pal, I know what you like. And I could give it to you if I chose. I have lived and I have loved and you will never find anything better than the particular cocktail of freedom and experience that I can whip up any day, any time.”
And then take him. Or don’t. If you’re married, take him with a look that will leave him bothered for days. No matter what you decide to do, your job is to make Aphrodite proud.
She demands it. You deserve it.