I believe I may have achieved unconscious competence—or at least conscious competence—in the realm of defensiveness.

I no longer feel the need to defend myself, my choices, my words, or my actions. Yet I still notice the flicker of defensiveness when someone says something that doesn’t align with my reality. Most recently, this surfaced when one of my most treasured companions questioned my affection for him.

I once believed longing meant I wanted someone. What I was often feeling, instead, was alarm.

Early on, love arrived inconsistently—attention came and went without warning. My nervous system learned to treat absence as urgency. Longing became a strategy, a way to measure whether I mattered. I chased reassurance, over-explained my feelings, and mistook delay for failure. It felt less like desire and more like vigilance.

I’ve come to see my standards not as rigid rules, but as invitations—ways of honoring my worth and protecting my energy. Sharing them isn’t about performance or pride. It’s about modeling how each of us deserves clarity, respect, and wholehearted alignment.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this kind of anticipation for an engagement. I’ve planned extended encounters before—thoughtful dinners, long afternoons, lingering nights, slow mornings. I told myself I enjoyed the orchestration, that the careful sequencing was part of the pleasure. And sometimes it was. But there was also the quiet work of waiting—of proposing a vision and hoping it would be met with the same enthusiasm.

When the words left his mouth—softly, almost reverently—I felt tears rise.

We were seated outside at the Columbia Restaurant on St. Armands Circle, one of my favorite places. Even in the warmth of a June afternoon, a gentle breeze moved through the courtyard. Before our meal arrived, he wandered off in search of the restroom and returned a little later, delighted by a brief detour through the gift shop. He loves to browse, and the quiet pleasure on his face made me smile.

I can’t pinpoint when I first began to prefer the company of older men. It happened sometime after we opened our marriage—when desire became more discerning, less urgent. My husband, close in age, had once been the entire landscape of my affection. But as my gaze widened, it wasn’t youth that caught my attention. It was presence. I found myself drawn instead to men who carried the weight of years with a particular kind of ease.