I married a man who is fourteen years older than I am, with an ex wife and two children to boot. My friends thought I was crazy to commit myself to someone who’d already experienced so much in life, who came with this kind of “baggage” because he had a few years on me. But I was head over heels for this guy, and he was smitten with me.
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Dating an older man wasn’t intentional, it was organic.
I’d dated men who were much older or younger than me in the past, so it wasn’t new for me to be attracted to men outside my age range. The younger men were full of energy, optimistic about the future, and generally a good time. But typically they didn’t last long, because there came a point in the evening where he wanted to talk about video games or hang out with his old buddies from high school, who still made up most of his social circle even though he’d graduated a few years before. I hadn’t spoken to any of my high school friends in more than ten years, since most of them had moved away and started having families.
The older men I dated were attractive to me in a different way.
Not only were they more mature, considerate, and romantic, but they were also surprisingly full of energy, passion, and ambition. They knew what they wanted and they weren’t afraid to just go for it. It’s a nice feeling to be pursued, and I have to admit younger men aren’t so adept at it. But after a time the romance fizzled and then I was on to the next.
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I met most of these men on my own, through friends or at parties or even at work (shhh, don’t tell my old bosses). However, when I was online dating, I wanted age limits firmly in place – the men I dated had to be less than five years older or a couple of years younger than me. I figured if I had a choice, I should go for what was most practical. I wanted to meet Mr. Right. Older men weren’t practical. Neither were younger men. They were just boys.