Sex with Johnny

Johnny Depp won't have sex with me. I've asked him dozens of times, in my mind at least, and though he's only four years younger than my 50, I am a matronly older woman to him.

This is what a brain at middle age can look like. Vascillating wildly between calm acceptance and temper tantrums, this intelligent, sensitive and wise woman is still driven nearly mad by the conflicting messages of culture, biology and personal history.

We all know the youth = beauty mindset; it's inescapable for both men and women - especially women. But the equation continues: youth + beauty = where it's at. As much as I don't want to buy in, part of me does. I fight with this "truth" all the time. We like to think that we know better, but the messages of a lifetime are hard to shake. Images, implications and blatant biases are bound into every mode and method of communication that assaults us. How is the puny human mind supposed to fend for itself, for rationality and balance, in such an obnoxious, insidious climate?

But while I have a deep commitment to fight youth + beauty = where it's at, in hopes of reducing ageism and marginalism, there is some truth to what I'm railing against. This is part of the paradox of middle age, and maybe peri-menopause especially: the body and mind are making last ditch efforts to partake in procreation, to be aligned with Eros and not Thanatos. (Recall that Eros is the life force, the libido in the largest sense of the word. Its counterpart is Thanatos, the shadow or call of death, which feels closer in middle age than in youth. Both of these dynamics have inestimable influence on the psyche.)

One of the great tasks of midlife is to come to terms with the past – the roads not taken, the achievements not realized, the future that is now here and doesn't look anything like you thought it would.

So what is there to do when you realize, at 50, that you didn't take advantage of your share of youth + beauty = where it's at? That your Eros was distracted by factors outside your awareness or control, its energies drained or mischanneled trying to stay mentally afloat in an overwhelming world?

In particular, what do you do when you realize that Eros did not get its fair share of sex? And to add insult to injury, now you are attracted to men half your age, while knowing full well that their life energy and beauty is a reflection of how you are beginning to feel inside, if not outside, as a fifty year old woman – and that they think of you as their mother?

Channel surfing one day, I came across a painful illustration of this topic. A reality show featured a group of young, attractive actors hoping to be chosen for a film project. Of course, there were love scenes that needed rehearsing, and the boys were very eager to practice with the girls. But first, a coach skilled in on-screen lovemaking was called in: a woman formerly from the "industry." An archetypal grandmother type with a thick, wide body and floppy breasts (one of which she flashed, to the dismay of the young folks), she insisted on teaching the hunky young men how to properly kiss for the movies. One very reluctant volunteer got himself pinned to the couch and was so resistant you could see his gag reflex working overtime. I felt sorry for them both.

Maybe she still thought of herself as a girl, the way I do, full of hope for the future, interested in being where opportunity is, where life is. In other words, being where it's at – and expressing the full range of who we are, now that we know how: the wisdom, the love, the knowledge of what's important, the desire to connect all this in ways we couldn't before. What young people don't know is that middle aged women make the best lovers, their passion (once focused) igniting for a second but more powerful time and wanting expression in response to life itself, not just flesh. The title and contents of my friend Trebbe Johnson's book, The World is a Waiting Lover, describe this concept beautifully.

So Johnny, if you, and more importantly I, can get past my 25 extra pounds, past the double chin, sallow skin and graying pubic hair that age so thanklessly bestows on the juiciest women on the planet – us middle aged gals - you are in for the ride of your life. Call me. In the meantime, I've got a beautiful husband to practice on.