I Love Men Essay

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A ROUND YOUNGER MEN I feel less lost in the world. I lend them books, and recommend others. It is not quite crucial what they are doing right now because their futures beckon on the horizon. They do not have to unlearn chauvinism; they know automatically to refer to me as "woman" instead of "girl" (or maybe it is because they see me as old). They lack the gloss of politeness. They do not annoy me by helping me on with my coat and arguing who pays for tickets (they are usually broke) but they also do not think to unlock my car door first so I will not have to stand in the cold. They are good if you do not want anything serious. They are too young to be taken seriously, carry with them the magic of impossibility. They are too young to plan the future with. Their lives are filled with unknowns, a string of X-factors. They are romantics. They will walk in new snow at midnight to make angels. Or to the beach at dark to wade. They will tell you their dreams, attaching an almost preternatural significance to them. They cast some spell of remembrance, awake something in you so that every time it snows new and wet and full, or you look at the water, black and rushing, you think of them. They may be flailing at life, like miller's daughter alone with a roomful of flax and no Rumpelstiltskin to weave gold cloth. I am not Rumpelstiltskin. I have no magic formulae. I need the Younger Men, too. But their rough edges snag me, making small scratches they aren't trained to discern. They have the ability to bruise hearts but their own hearts are not bruised and weathered enough to be wise. My heart still feels young, but buffeted. "My heart is soft," I say to a Younger Man. "I'm afraid to let it out alone without a guide. It could get hurt." The Younger Man says, "Yeah." Younger Men examine my metaphors like quaint handcrafted ornaments, or they do not quite understand them. Sometimes

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