Lecherous Old Lesbians

I went to Davis Square the other day to meet a friend for lunch. Davis Square, in Somerville, MA, is ultra cool. So cool it makes Newton look like Iowa. To get there is a ridiculous venture of side roads, twisting, turning, remembering odd streets and one-way roads. Make a wrong turn, you’re in East Boston. Or Connecticut.

Make the right turn, you reach the home of the hip, the trendsetters, and the young. There are fabulous restaurants- Gargoyles, Red Bones, and where I met my friend, the Diesel Café.

They should have named it the Diesel Dyke Café because the place was crawling with the cutest, hottest, young lesbians I’ve seen in a long, long time.

And I worked in Jamaica Plain for a while, walking the center ever day. No comparison.

My friend and I have known each other almost twenty years. We have the kind of connection that even if we don’t talk for a long time, when we get together, there better be at least two hours free or we’re going to feel like we’ve said nothing.

We sat down in the very hip, edgy urban café after ordering our sandwiches with sprouts and whole grain bread. I believe we invented that cuisine in the seventies, but I guess it goes to show everything comes back in style, even sprouts.

While we discussed our kids, our long-term relationships, our extended families, the long journey we’ve been on, trying to find balance and laughing at our missteps, we could not help but watch the young women walk by, from time to time.

You know, my friend said to me, we might feel 24 years old? But we’re not.

Oh god, we’re lecherous old lesbians! I said. Drooling over women young enough to be our children!

This did not stop us but it did put it in a different frame. It’s hard to imagine sometimes how much older we are now. She’s almost fifty. That can’t be. I remember her watch a basketball game I was playing in because there was a cute, single woman on the team I thought she’d like. I could still play basketball. I played a pretty good game, too, back in the day.

I know it seems like I’m going on an age rampage- “Rage, rage against the dying of the light” but to be honest, I like where I am now.

Minus the hot flashes.

I honestly don’t want to be 24 again. I love that I have a friend I know so well we can pick up as if not a day had passed in between visits. When we first met, we had to learn so much about each other, hear each other’s stories. All that information is piled together over the years, turned into humorous, one-liners, understood without needing any explanation.

“I don’t fly coach” is my favorite.

It’s not about flying coach at all, but a fun story and a parent’s ability to make light of a difficult situation.

As we finished our long talk, we decided it was a good place to meet. Maybe we are too old to even be considered attractive by those young women. To be honest, I have so much more than them. I don’t want to go back to living in bad parts of town, and having earnest conversations about world peace over Blue Nun wine.

Okay, I’m still having earnest conversations about world peace; they just don’t last all night anymore.

Today the wine is much better than Blue Nun.

I like all my experiences – good and bad- and the vision it gives me. I love the richness of my friendships.

And even though I’m old enough to be their mother? Those young lesbians smiled and acknowledged us. I remember seeing older lesbians when I was their age and thinking, Thank you.

But certainly not, I want to date you. No. Never.

I may not be hip. I may not be a trendsetter. But I helped paved some of the road they are walking on today.