Just a bit of advice for those considering dating men over 50: We come as we are. We’ve spent 50 years becoming stubborn, set-in-our-ways apes. No promises of juicy steak dinners, fine cognac, or oral favors is going to change us.
One particular feature that comes with your Phil doll is fur. I’m fucking Italian. As such, I come oilier and furrier than most. Some have suggested that I wax here, trim there, and shave that. Not gonna happen. If your man has a stray hair or two, learn to love it, sugar. You go right ahead and scrape and rip all the hair off your body, if that suits your needs. He’s your cuddly bear. You wouldn’t have a hairless teddy bear, would ya?
Had a friend’s recent bride brag about having couple’s manicures with him. I think they should be called womanicures. Have a look-see at my foot claws and you’ll understand why I would never ask even the cutest little Asian clipper to deal with my baseball-beaten toenails. Sure, my buddy insists (in front of his human investment) that he enjoys getting his toes tidied. I know better.
Fitness nuts are annoying. If you choose to be anything-free, goodie for you — it’s not for me. I was putting Spenda in my coffee and heard a comment suggesting fake stuff is bad, and I’d be much better off using unbleached sugar. You know why I use Spenda? Cuz I like the fucking taste of Splenda. To mimic that flavor, I would need to add four packets of yuck-sugar and then spend five minutes stirring the coffee to get them to dissolve, by which time I would be drinking warm coffee, which sucks ass no matter what packet was added in the first place. Leave me and my coffee alone.
Extreme fitness nuts are red flags. If someone is obsessively training to run a what-the-fuck-
It’s best to avoid “shoulds” at all costs, especially when dealing with gray gorillas. Don’t tell us what we should change. Love us as we are, if you want us to stick around.
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