Midlife marriage

My childhood friend floods my email inbox with photos of fifty-something men. Long-divorced, she is dating again, and I am her co-conspirator in this online search.

"Naaa, can't deal with his double chin."
"What does he mean, looking for his 'planetary complement'?"

It's great fun to see how these men describe themselves, and which of their graying faces catches our eye. I feel like I'm in my twenties again, looking for Mr. Right.

But I'm not really looking. It's more than two decades now since I joined forces with the man who's evolved into my midlife husband. While it's exciting to help my friend find new possibilities, I'm focused on forging deeper connections with the same old partner. And that's as riveting as her online search.

Is this unique to our generation? That we want to squeeze more excitement and romance out of a long-term relationship? Most of our grandparents grew old without these expectations. They stuck with their assigned roles, tolerated their spouses, and enjoyed the grandchildren. We demand more engagement. If we don't change partners, we tend to push our existing partners toward more intimate depths.

An elusive quality

What is deep intimacy, exactly? There's a Yiddish folksong about a couple that's been married fifty years, and they've never fought or spoken unkindly to one another. God Above has blessed them with prosperity and honor. Now there's an image to soothe our cynical soul. A couple at the end of their lives, still holding on to one another's trusted hands.

And yet, what if you like to fight with your partner? Or at least spar? When my husband and I first met, we argued passionately about religion, food, and alternative medicine. However, when it was time to raise children, we discovered we were remarkably in synch. Now our daughters are almost grown. Our energy is freed up. Having made peace with our earlier issues and knowing each other well, what do we do now? How do we keep the juices flowing?

"Is there anything yet to discover about you?" I ask suspiciously. "Try me," says my husband.

So we linger over coffee, with unprecedented time, and I ask this long-term companion to tell me again why he chose me. I ask about his moving around as a child, his financial worries, and what he plans to do with his artistic bent. As he answers, I realize I've carried around certain misperceptions about him for more than two decades. Is this part of going deeper? Finding the truths you were too busy, nervous, or rattled to understand properly the first time?

Like a great book

"Should we finally make that trip to Paris this summer?" my husband asks one day.
Before I can say yes fast enough, I realize this is something we can do only now that our children are older. No need to narrow our choices to a family-friendly vacation. We get to be a carefree couple that strolls along the Seine in that "mature blush of love."

A long-term marriage reminds me of a great piece of literature. You read it once, and you're swept away. When you read it again, it's still pleasurable -- and you find things you missed the first time. You can put it back on the bookshelf or throw it behind the dresser, but when you open it back up, even though you know the story, it's still a warm, engaging read.

Being the same age, my husband and I will be glad if we both make it to our 50th anniversary. I hope we will have at least a few things to spar about, because I wouldn't want to grow stale. But I'll be grateful for -- and I think my childhood friend and most of her online suitors are looking for this, too -- a trusted hand to hold at the end.