and friend. We had met a few years before at the SAG awards and worked together enough that I felt comfortable going to her for advice. I had to ask someone—I was a novice. I hadn’t dated—really dated—since before World War II.
So I would e-mail her a picture of the woman I was meeting and ask her opinion: “What do you think?” Or, “Have you heard of this restaurant?”
At some point I realized that I looked forward to Arlene’s responses more than I did the dates. Pretty soon I quit e-mailing her pictures of other women and suggested the two of us get together. I liked talking to her. I liked her personality. I liked her sense of humor. I liked her take on things. I liked her smiles and her eyes. I liked everything about her. Indeed, I liked the feeling—and this came as a pleasant, unsettling surprise—that I liked her and wanted to be around her.
Does that happen in your eighties?
It sure does.
There was just one problem: the difference in our ages: forty-six years. Ten years is not that big an issue once you’re in your thirties; a thirty-five-year-old man with a twenty-five-year-old woman is not a big deal. Twenty years is also an understandable choice, whether you’re in your sixties or your eighties. My brother is married to a woman in her sixties. No one questioned that gap when he was in his sixties, and now that he’s in his eighties, both of them look smart.
But forty-six years was uncharted territory. Though I was quite sure Arlene knew I was smitten with her, I was not blind to the reality: we were nearly two-and-a-half generations apart, which was like being separated by three time zones, the equator, and another language. Or was it? Or was it not that big of a difference?
I went over the pros and cons, making sure the pros outnumbered the cons, and told myself to be cautious, to take any next steps slowly. I knew that, at eighty-three, Iwas going to be the major beneficiary of socializing with a beautiful woman in her thirties. At the same time, I sensed that Arlene also enjoyed my company. We had worked together. We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. She occasionally came over and made dinner, or I would pick something up, and she checked in on me. It seemed safe to assume that she was thinking about me almost as often as I was thinking about her—and how to move our friendship into a relationship.
As this happened, I began to feel like myself again. I turned the lights on again. I felt a lightness in my step. I looked forward to talking to Arlene. I had things to say. I wasn’t isolated or alone or lonely. It was the darnedest thing. After months of floundering, it was so natural, so effortless. Since then people have asked how I got through the tough parts of losing Michelle. The answer? I didn’t. What helped me through this tough period was the same thing that helps in any tough situation, the same thing that had brought me luck when I was struggling in New York with a wife and three young kids when I left the TV station where I worked and auditioned for every play on and off Broadway in order to earn extra money: I opened myself up to the world and all its possibilities, and the world responded.
In this particular instance, I opened my heart. I let life back in. I realized that if I wanted Arlene in my life, I simply had to take a risk. The choice was mine. And it was a simple choice: sit or get off the pot roast.
What Do You Talk About with Her? What Do You Talk About with Her?
My brother is caught up in a mystery, even though I have explained the answer to him numerous times. The mystery is my three-year marriage to Arlene. Each time Jerry looks at us, he squints his eyes, shakes his head, and asks, “What do you talk about with her?”
He did it when we were eating lunch together recently. We were having a pleasant conversation about something we both had seen on television, when suddenly he looked up from his cake, shook his head in the direction of Arlene, and asked
So I would e-mail her a picture of the woman I was meeting and ask her opinion: “What do you think?” Or, “Have you heard of this restaurant?”
At some point I realized that I looked forward to Arlene’s responses more than I did the dates. Pretty soon I quit e-mailing her pictures of other women and suggested the two of us get together. I liked talking to her. I liked her personality. I liked her sense of humor. I liked her take on things. I liked her smiles and her eyes. I liked everything about her. Indeed, I liked the feeling—and this came as a pleasant, unsettling surprise—that I liked her and wanted to be around her.
Does that happen in your eighties?
It sure does.
There was just one problem: the difference in our ages: forty-six years. Ten years is not that big an issue once you’re in your thirties; a thirty-five-year-old man with a twenty-five-year-old woman is not a big deal. Twenty years is also an understandable choice, whether you’re in your sixties or your eighties. My brother is married to a woman in her sixties. No one questioned that gap when he was in his sixties, and now that he’s in his eighties, both of them look smart.
But forty-six years was uncharted territory. Though I was quite sure Arlene knew I was smitten with her, I was not blind to the reality: we were nearly two-and-a-half generations apart, which was like being separated by three time zones, the equator, and another language. Or was it? Or was it not that big of a difference?
I went over the pros and cons, making sure the pros outnumbered the cons, and told myself to be cautious, to take any next steps slowly. I knew that, at eighty-three, Iwas going to be the major beneficiary of socializing with a beautiful woman in her thirties. At the same time, I sensed that Arlene also enjoyed my company. We had worked together. We e-mailed. We talked on the phone. She occasionally came over and made dinner, or I would pick something up, and she checked in on me. It seemed safe to assume that she was thinking about me almost as often as I was thinking about her—and how to move our friendship into a relationship.
As this happened, I began to feel like myself again. I turned the lights on again. I felt a lightness in my step. I looked forward to talking to Arlene. I had things to say. I wasn’t isolated or alone or lonely. It was the darnedest thing. After months of floundering, it was so natural, so effortless. Since then people have asked how I got through the tough parts of losing Michelle. The answer? I didn’t. What helped me through this tough period was the same thing that helps in any tough situation, the same thing that had brought me luck when I was struggling in New York with a wife and three young kids when I left the TV station where I worked and auditioned for every play on and off Broadway in order to earn extra money: I opened myself up to the world and all its possibilities, and the world responded.
In this particular instance, I opened my heart. I let life back in. I realized that if I wanted Arlene in my life, I simply had to take a risk. The choice was mine. And it was a simple choice: sit or get off the pot roast.
What Do You Talk About with Her? What Do You Talk About with Her?
My brother is caught up in a mystery, even though I have explained the answer to him numerous times. The mystery is my three-year marriage to Arlene. Each time Jerry looks at us, he squints his eyes, shakes his head, and asks, “What do you talk about with her?”
He did it when we were eating lunch together recently. We were having a pleasant conversation about something we both had seen on television, when suddenly he looked up from his cake, shook his head in the direction of Arlene, and asked
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