In the summertime, in the southern region of France, my spouse and I enjoy engaging, albeit not skillfully, in the lottery. We embark on extended, sweltering strolls to the village — gratuitous beauty, gratuitous heat — stirring up dust and engaging in leisurely discussions about how we would utilize a potential windfall. I procure scratch-offs, jackpot tickets, meticulously scraping the former with euro coins in establishments too refined for such activities. Strangely, I never redeem them, nor do I bother to verify the winning numbers. For in a sense, I had already struck a metaphorical jackpot, akin to the lottery, with its blessings and its burdens, when he chose to marry me.
There exists a ten-year age gap between us. I intentionally selected him, not by happenstance. As far as pivotal life choices go, on the whole, I advocate for it.
During my time as a 20-year-old junior at Harvard College, a series of profound ironies began to taunt me. No matter how much I studied, how exceptional I proved myself to be, my most potent asset remained so universally acknowledged that it overshadowed my other aspirations. My youth. The freshness of my visage and physique. Incredibly effortless; ruthlessly fleeting. I shared this quality with the average, nonchalant young woman sauntering down the street. The realization, when it dawned on me, altered my perspective, akin to how a falling leaf can compel you to gaze upward: I could meticulously construct an idyllic existence, over countless sleepless nights and industrious endeavors. Or I could simply marry into it early.
Thus, I commenced lugging a weighty suitcase of books each Saturday to the Harvard Business School to delve into my Nabokov paper. In a vast, well-furnished room resided approximately 50 of the most eligible bachelors on the planet. I possessed prominent attributes, most of my eggs, plausible deniability concerning my innocence, a sleek ponytail, a spring in my step that had yet to wane. Apologies to Progress, but older men still coveted these traits.
I couldn’t comprehend why my female peers didn’t accompany me, given their intellect. Each time I reconsidered the project, it appeared increasingly rational. Why disregard our youth when it bestowed upon us a superpower? Why shoulder the burdens of womanhood, its fleeting upper hand, without at least seizing its transient advantages? Perhaps it was easier to sidestep the issue entirely than to acknowledge that women indeed have a tragically brief window of influence, and a valid reason to capitalize on that fact while they can. As for me, I relished history, Victorian novels, and was well-versed in the imminent perils that women faced from all the books I had devoured: possessive partners; the dual demands of work, both at the office and in the hospital, expected concurrently; a decline in status as we aged, akin to an impending eclipse. I would have disapproved of being labeled as calculating, but like all women, I possessed a mental calculator. I found it nonsensical to disregard its conclusions when they pointed to an injustice for which we should have been preparing.
By nature, I was competitive, an English literature student with grand ambitions and modest prospects (Penning the Great American novel; securing an email job). A tad restless, yearning for novel experiences and locales; to journey here, to venture there, to be present where significant events unfolded. I harbored resentment toward the callow boys in my class, who pursued a specific, socially approved type on campus: slender and devoid of sexuality, emotionally aloof yet socially well-connected, the antithesis of me. One restless Saturday night, I donned a crimson dress and sneaked into a graduate school function, coiling an HDMI cord around my wrist as evidence of some technical obligation. I danced. I imbibed liberally, until one of the organizers requested my departure. I hailed and boarded an Uber. Subsequently, I promptly disembarked. There he stood, emerging from the rotating doors. With brown eyes, curved lips, impeccable attire. I approached him, solicited a cigarette. A rendezvous ensued, days later. A subsequent encounter revealed that he was a person, potentially my preferred kind: witty, discerning, brilliant, intimately acquainted with the universe.
Once, I loved men akin to how men love women — inadequately, driven by my own deficiencies. Not him. During those initial days, I spoke affectionately of my family, stocked the refrigerator with his preferred pasta, folded his attire more meticulously than I ever have since. I composed a gratitude-filled note to his mother for accommodating me in his native France, akin to a gesture befitting a daughter-in-law. It was effective; it was genuine. Following my graduation and fellowship at Oxford, I remained in Europe for his career and wedded him at 23.
In essence, I merely fell in love. Romances possess a backdrop; I had merely intervened to position myself advantageously. Primarily, I discerned the precise predicament of being a woman in advance, endeavored to navigate it rather than succumb to it. I had grown weary of discussions on , and instead favored contemplating a concept known as ease.
The hinges on its overt nature. The more pronounced and conspicuous the age and status differential between a man and a woman, the more it appears to others as transactional. Transactional reasoning in relationships is as quintessentially American as it gets, yet remains a taboo subject in the American romantic lexicon. When a 50-year-old man walks alongside a 25-year-old woman, inquiries materialize within you; they evoke cynicism and discomfort: How advantageous is this arrangement? Which party benefits more? Would I enter into such an agreement? He is senior in years. Earnings typically increase with age, hence the presumption that he possesses financial stability, at least in relation to her; at the very least, more connections and experience. She boasts youthful skin, energy, allure. Perhaps she acquires a luxury Birkin bag. Perhaps he gains a child long after his prime. The sight of their intertwined hands sheds a stark light on the calculations each of us engages in, to varying extents, in relationships. Even the most romantic of unions necessitate a contractual agreement.
Two decades versus three decades is unlike three versus four; a hint of freshness in my appearance back then, a trace of awkwardness in my demeanor, warped our decade, in the eyes of others, into an insurmountable divide. Perhaps this elucidates the animosity directed toward us at the outset of our relationship. People seemed to take our union very, very personally. I recollect a harrowing car ride with one of his acquaintances who began reproaching me in hushed tones from the backseat, with accusations audible only to me. He asserted, You sought a wealthy boyfriend. You pursued and infiltrated social gatherings. He spared me the ignominy of being labeled a gold digger, yet he delineated, with different words, the semblance of it. The most aggrieved were the single older women, my husband’s peers. They conversed about me in the restroom at social gatherings while I was in a stall. What does he see in her? What do they converse about? They expressed concern for me. They wielded their concern like a weapon. Without intending to, they echoed my favorite line from : “You took advantage of my disadvantage,” suspecting me of some vulnerability that he, in turn, exploited. It didn’t perturb them as much to contemplate that all relationships involve exchanges. The issue lay in the fact that the exchange I partook in struck them as unfavorable.
The reality is, one can fall in love with someone for myriad reasons, minute transactions, pros and cons, culminating in mutual affection, loyalty, commitment. The way someone fetches your preferred croissant. Their attentive listening. Their gestures on your anniversary and your reciprocation, thoughtfully wrapped. The tranquility they instill; your joy, enhancing it. When someone expresses feeling unappreciated, what they truly imply is that you are indebted to them.
When I envision relationships where partners are of the same age and stage in life, I typically envisage a scenario where a woman is expending excessive effort for inadequate returns.
I am 27 now, and most women my age have “partners.” Presently, young women assume the role of partners quite early. A partner is deemed a contemporary solution to the oppression associated with marriage, the disconcerting sensation of someone looming over you as the head of a household to which you can only ever play a subordinate role. Necks are inherently vulnerable. However, the predicament with a partner lies in the fact that if you are equals in all aspects, you inevitably compromise in all aspects. Men are adept at .
There exists a lad out there who comprehends the art of flossing because my acquaintance instructed him. Presently, he engages in amorous activities with college coeds, flaunting minty-fresh breath. A young man wed to my friend who lacks proficiency in packing his own luggage. She “enjoys doing it for him.” A multitude of young men who are adept at satisfying a woman, who enroll in because they were nudged, who acquired fidelity, boundaries, decency, etiquette, the art of utilizing a top sheet, and behaving humanely beneath it, calling their mothers, coordinating colors, presenting flowers at funerals, and maintaining composure in the face of anger, all because some woman, some woman we know, some woman they likely do not engage with and will never acknowledge, invested the time to educate them. All while she was toiling, nurturing herself, scaling the precipice of adulthood. Heaving him upward at her own expense.
I stumbled upon a Reddit post where five thousand men endeavor to define “.” They delineate raised flower beds, blankets, photographs of their loved ones, not hers, sprouting on the mantle overnight. Candles, coasters, side tables. Someone remembering to extract lint from the dryer. Dispensing compliments. I contemplate what these women receive in return. I envision them akin to Cinderella’s mice, scurrying about, their sole validation of existence arising from their contributions to a more central character. Occasionally, I encounter a delightful couple, who matured together. They comprehend each other with an affectionate camaraderie that is foreign and tender to me. However, I reflect on all my friends who faltered in this regard, were let down in this regard, and I conclude, No, absolutely not, too precarious. At times, riskier than an age differential.
My younger brother is in his early 20s, striking, accomplished, yet in many ways, a charming disaster. By his age, I had long since acquired wisdom. He leaves his attire in the dryer, extracts a solitary shirt, steams it for three minutes. His towel lies on the floor, awaiting someone else to retrieve it. His delightful, same-age girlfriend yearns to rectify these proclivities, among others. She is remarkably capable. Statistically, they are unlikely to remain together. Recently, he relocated to his first abode, and she, the girlfriend, furnished him with an extensive, detailed list of essentials for his apartment: bed linens, towels, hangers, a colander, which elicited a chuckle from me. She selected his sofa. I am willing to wager that she will rectify his laundry habits, and if successful, they will astound the subsequent woman. Should they part ways, she will never set eyes on that sofa again, and he will forget its narrative. I divulge this to her when I visit because I hold her in esteem, though I face reproach for it: You shouldn’t exert yourself to such an extent for him, not for someone who is not committed to you, not for any young man, not even for my exceptional brother.
Excessive labor had left my husband, by the age of 30, disenchanted and uninspired. He had burned out — yet I could reignite the spark. I danced at restaurants when they played a melody I favored. I transformed grocery shopping into an adventure, gratified by my contributions. Ambitious, eager, he necessitated someone astute enough to captivate his interest, yet adaptable in her routines to accommodate his schedule. I could. I do: engage myself in reading, render myself available, materialize beside him when summoned. In return, I abandoned a lucrative yet monotonous job involving spreadsheets to pursue writing full-time, without having to subsist like a conventional writer. I endeavored to cook, to a certain extent, and decorate, albeit somewhat ineptly. Primarily, I relish the liberty to read, to traverse central London and Miami, ruminating in delightful circles, to toil diligently, when required, without recompense, and craft stories for a compensation far below minimum wage when I account for all the hours invested in composing them.
At the age of 20, I felt overwhelmed by the notion of evolving into my ideal self, incapable of envisaging achieving it in tandem with someone else, two raw masses of clay endeavoring to sculpt one another and merely besmirching things further. I would embark on dates with young men my age and depart with the impression that they weren’t revealing themselves, but a persona that did not yet exist and on whom I was expected to bet nonetheless. Conversely, my husband appeared to me as a finished, polished product. Analyzable for compatibility. He bore the imprints of other women who had enhanced him, minor yet pivotal basics like use a coaster; listen, don’t dispense advice. Young egos mature into patience and magnanimity.
My husband isn’t my partner. He’s my mentor, my lover, and, only in specific contexts, my friend. I will forever remember how he acquainted me with our initial abode as if he were introducing me to myself: This is the wine you’ll savor, where you’ll store your attire, we vacation here, this is the other language we’ll converse in, you’ll master it, and I did. Adulthood seemed like an array of onerous obligations. Yet his logistics ran so smoothly that he effortlessly incorporated mine. I relocated to his apartment, to his level, drag and drop, cleaning thrice weekly, bills automated. By eschewing partnership in my 20s, I granted myself a form of compartmentalized, liberating self-absorption that none of my friends have succeeded in attaining. I am a work in progress, the enigma we fret over, an unexpected dominance. When I sought my initial job at 21, we pooled our efforts, for my benefit. He had wisdom to impart, connections with whom he arranged meetings; we spent an afternoon, laughing, compiling earnest lists of my pros and cons (highly sociable; poor at math). Meanwhile, I fielded calls from a dear friend who had a boyfriend her age. Both fiercely ambitious, intimately connected and intertwined in each other’s pursuits. If each was a , the other was the first recruit, an intense dedication that captivated me. However, each time she reached out to me, I ended the call with a distinct sensation that too much was transpiring concurrently: both learning to appease a supervisor; to forge more mature relationships with their families; to remit bills and taxes and hang artwork on the wall. Neither possessed advice to offer and certainly no stability. I envisioned a three-legged race, two individuals tethered together and hobbling toward every milestone.
I don’t delude myself. My marriage has its drawbacks. There are only so many times one can express “thank you” — for splendid experiences, exquisite meals — before the phrase begins to grate. I reside in an apartment where he covers the rent, constraining the freedom with which I can express displeasure with him. He need not wield it as a threat. It merely lingers there, complicating conventional shorthand explanations for dissatisfaction like, You aren’t being supportive lately. There is a French expression, “Take a decision,” and occasionally I jest: from whom? Occasionally, I find myself in some magnificent country at some extravagant soiree, pondering the extensive distance I have traversed, akin to a fortuitous cloud, and it is disconcerting to ponder oneself as ephemeral.
Primarily, I fret that if he were to betray me and I had to move forward, I would endure, yet discover in my humor, preferences, the way I brew coffee or arrange the bed, nothing that he did not influence, alter, shape, recompose, imprint with his insignia, akin to how Renaissance painters concealed their visages within their artworks amidst a crowd. I ponder if when they gazed at their artworks, they perceived their own countenances foremost. Yet this is the wrong query if our objective is happiness. Similar to the other query on which I am anticipated to ruminate: Who wields the authority, the man steering or the woman who facilitated his ascendancy so she could relish herself? I sit in the car, in the painting it would have taken me a corporate job and 20 years to create alone, and my concern over who holds the upper hand fades into the distance, akin to the horizon, the one he and I expanded so generously for me.
Being a woman entails racing against the clock, in several ways, until naught remains but exhaustion.
We strive to postpone it, but it will inevitably catch up with us: that we dwell in a world where our authority assumes a distinct form from that of men, a dissimilar apportionment of advantage, ours a funnel and theirs an expanding cone. A woman at 20 seldom needs to earn her acceptance; a lad at 20 will be rebuffed at the threshold. A woman at 30 may discover a younger woman has usurped her position; a man at 30 will have ushered her in. I reminisce about the women in the restroom, my husband’s colleagues. What was my relationship if not an irrefutable manifestation of this inequity? What was I doing, in marrying older, if not endorsing it? I had capitalized on their vulnerability. I had forestalled my own. After all, principled women are expected to defy injustice, to exhibit some integrity or denial, not strategize around it, as I had. These were driven women, accomplished, beautiful, competent. I merely possessed the one thing they had already relinquished. By preempting the issue, had I pushed them down? If I hadn’t, would it truly have made any difference?
When we aspired to achieve parity with men, we aligned ourselves with men’s schedules. We worked when they worked, retired when they retired, had to cram pregnancy, children, menopause somewhere impossibly within the margins. I have a friend, in her late 20s, who wears a mood ring; these days it often flickers red, a beacon when she elucidates her predicament to me. She has nurtured her fair share of peers of the same age. She has diligently toiled alongside them, too. Finally, she is beginning to reap the rewards, earning an income that enables her to finally savor life. Yet now, precisely at this juncture of liberty and pleasure, a temporal constraint looms. If she desires to bear children before 35, she must embark on her subsequent profession, motherhood, rather soon, inevitably reverting to her initial one. The same-age partner, equally unsettled in his career, will likely take only the minimum time off, she speculates, or else bear some cost that will rebound on her. Everything invariably does. If she opts to buy time, the decision and its repercussions will weigh solely on her — and perhaps it may prove futile. Overlay the years a