Growing As a Woman When Married to An Older Man
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Words by Maggie Cubbler
I straightened out my shirt, fluffed up my hair and reapplied my lip gloss before heading back into the bar. Taking one more glimpse, my heart sunk at how I looked under the harsh restroom lighting. The overhead canister lights casted a shadow that magnified my perceived flaws: sunken eyes, sallow skin, and a chasm on my forehead which betrayed my age. But I believed what the mirror told me. I was 23.
I loathed myself and had to put on my game face as I left the safety of the restroom’s calm. Feigning confidence as I made my way back to my friends, I strode along the length of the bar. I hustled past bartenders working quickly, TVs playing ESPN, and beautiful girls being beautiful. I hoped that nobody noticed what the mirror said.
My friends were standing at our tables loudly laughing at something or somebody. I smiled and picked up my pace, looking forward to joining in. Preoccupied, I didn’t see him heading me off at the pass.
My future. And he was suddenly kissing me.
Until that very moment, he was just one of the large group of friends and coworkers I met for Happy Hours and NFL Sundays. I knew he was significantly older and had a young daughter. I knew he had intense blue eyes and a low tolerance for bullshit. I knew he was sort of my boss. But I had no idea he was interested in me.
We parted lips and I smiled, lowering my eyes. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that I had gotten this sort of attention. Embarrassed that my glittery red lip gloss was now all over this grown man’s face. Embarrassed that I kissed my boss in front of everyone. He asked me out. I said yes. I wasn’t sure I was allowed to say no.
So we did. And we kept doing so.
Suddenly, my friends became our friends and it was either we or he who got invited, my identity absorbed into the relationship. And so I carried on, cooking dinners for them at his apartment or sitting at home alone while they had poker nights. It made sense, I figured: he was there first.
After about six months, I met her. She had beautiful eyes, blond hair, skinny little legs and was his everything. She was sweet and spunky and loved to watch the most annoying cartoons. I wanted her to like me, so when she turned eight in the middle of her summer with my boyfriend and her dad, I organized her surprise birthday party. We took her to the movies, the mall, and soccer camp. I tried to make his life, ours. He happily accepted. But I had to leave each evening by 8pm.
That summer I grew up fast. I couldn’t be 23; the mirror told me I needed to catch up.
He had a formidable presence at work: his desk was adorned with awards and pictures of him shaking hands with important people. 15 years in to his career, he had made a name for himself; I tried to maintain a work ethic that was deserving of his status. I worked holidays and midnights, qualified in extra duties and assignments, and I would sit entire shifts without a break so he could arrive in the morning and see my initials next to every completed task. He needed to know I was worth it. I needed to show I was grown enough to be worthy of his life.
There was no we in the office. There was no me, either. He called me by my military rank, I referred to him as Mister. We were together about a year, and talking about a future, when I was faced with a choice: me or him. A person with a vendetta had made a complaint that I was getting preferential treatment. It wasn’t true, but the suggestion was enough. I needed to end the relationship with him or lose the job I was very good at; there was no question he would stay right where he was.
It made sense. He was there first. I chose him.
I got moved to a new office where, for the next two years, I died on the vine. Overlooked, marginalized, and the only name I had now replaced with “sleeps with boss to get to the top,” I gave up on my career and myself and turned my attention to our future. His friends told him I was the marrying kind and we got engaged. He got promoted. The mirror told me I was old enough. But at 26, I had stopped growing.
My Navy career ended and we got married. We bought a house he liked with his money and I got a degree but failed to find a job. We moved abroad with my then-teenage stepdaughter. I spent my days at the gym. He supported me but there I was, dependently independent, trying to grow with someone who was already grown. For the next 14 years there were failed businesses, dead-end jobs, another international move, and bouts of depression. The problem eluded me and the face in the mirror started to change; the chasm deepening, the cheeks widening. My son came along when I was 34 and made me a mother. But I was forever stunted at age 26.
I couldn’t close the gap. I was lost. I recognized the woman I saw in the mirror, but she just wasn’t me.
Deep down, I grew to resent everything I had given up for him: my friends, my career, my reputation. My independence. My 20s. And then my 30s. But my head spun in the conflicting messages of my heart and of those around me who told me I was lucky to be taken care of. For years, I had been reminded that many of these sacrifices come with the territory of marrying a man who is 15 years older than me. Yet nobody ever reminded him that he married someone 15 years younger.
Until I did.
It took a breakdown and then a foot down. I was staring 40 in the eye when the realization hit me: I skipped 15 years of my own life to catch up to him and never gave myself a chance. It had to stop. I had to stop chasing him. Thus, my real journey as an individual—the journey to discovering the meaning of independence within the context of a marriage—began. I had to embrace my individuality. I needed to chase me, instead.
The transition wasn’t easy. The context of my life conditioned me to perceive my accomplishments as “extra.” My personal endeavors, unnecessary. My ambitions, secondary. I had been programmed to believe that it was a good thing to have everything done for me, that I was lucky. The guilt of looking a gift-horse in the mouth consumed me and I did not enjoy making choices for myself. But, like most things, it got better with practice. I got better. I traveled alone, pursued a meaningful career and added me back into my identity as wife and mother. It no longer feels like an indulgence. I’m no longer in a rush.
Today, I look in the mirror and study the face I see. It’s rounder and there’s a crease between my eyes joining the one on my forehead. Traces of gray frame my face and I’ve had to start using a night cream. Nevertheless, as I look deeper into my eyes I don’t see criticism nor contempt for myself. Instead, I see kindness. Acceptance. Calm. And a sadness for the 20-something me that felt that she wasn’t good enough. But there is no race against the clock anymore. There is simply, here.
I’m here now, even if he was here first. I’m 40. I’m me.
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About the Author:
Maggie Cubbler is a writer, fierce individual, and creator of The Forty Mag. Believing that women face specific challenges to their identities, her writings focus on thoughts about personal freedom, self-confidence and growth for the 40-something woman. An ex-pat for almost 10 years, she is currently based in Germany with her son, husband and extensive beer collection. Maggie also loves cooking, garbage television and red lipstick.
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