Magnify

In 1965, Dominican diplomat, race car driver, and general man about town Porfirio Rubirosa married his fifth wife, French actress Odile Rodin. He was a young 56. She was a mature 19. When interviewing Porfirio’s biographer forty years later, NPR’s Scott Simon described Ms. Rodin as “punishingly younger.”

Punishingly younger? Who was doing this punishing? And why?

Odile may have felt she was being punished. Especially as Porfirio was reputed to be more than generously endowed. Large pepper grinders were referred to as “Rubirosas.” But any girl can tell you, there can be too much of a good thing.

Or was it, as Scott Simon implied, that Porfirio died of sexual exhaustion only months after marrying Odile? To be sure, the actual cause of death was the fact he drove his Ferrari into a tree. But, had his wife been older, perhaps he would have been able to concentrate on his driving. The Department of Transportation may want to adopt this as their next road safety campaign: Trophy Wife. Lose your Life.

My husband heard the Scott Simon piece with glee. He turned to me and pronounced my new nickname.

“Hello, PY.”

“Ha Ha.”

“Are you my PY wife?” He tried to poke at me in a playful, I-am-hoping-this-will-lead-to-sex kind of way.

“You are very funny,” I replied in a flat monotone that implied I was not amused. And there was no way in hell he was getting sex after that comment.

“PY. Punishingly younger,” my husband explained, in case I hadn’t gotten the joke.

“I understood.”

“Oh. You’re not laughing.”

I have to say that I am delighted Porfirio proposed to Odile, as now I know one other couple with a greater age difference than my husband and me. When my husband and I married, I was 30 and he was 58. Not as punishing as Porfirio and Odile, but shocking enough. I hadn’t been married more than, oh, a day, when I realized there were definite issues that you encounter when you marry someone much older than you. Though perhaps not the same ones faced by Mr. Rubirosa and his wife.

My husband is just delightful, but—and this is just between us—he isn’t exactly a pepper grinder (though a decent salt shaker could be named after him). Sadly for him, I am not punishing him in the bedroom either. Unlike Odile, I inherited two young stepchildren when I married my husband. So sexual exhaustion isn’t the issue. Just exhaustion, period.

However, there is still a punishment with our age-disparate marriage. It appears that in a time when sexism, racism and judgments of sexual orientation are politically incorrect, relative-ageism is still allowed. Some time ago, my husband and I ran into a friend and his date at a restaurant.

“My goodness,” she gushed, “You are much younger than your husband.”

People often inform me of this point as if they think I have not yet realized it. If you, the casual observer, can tell there is an age difference, then I, his wife, probably already know. You don’t need to tell me.

The helpful lady continued, “Exactly how big is the age difference between you?”

“Ummm.” I fumbled for the right response. “It’s the perfect size. Can I get you another drink?”

“No. Really. I want to know. How BIG is it?”

“Bigger than a salt shaker, smaller than a pepper grinder,” I thought, but remained tactfully quiet.

Putting aside the insensitivities of society, the truly punishing thing about being a PY is that you may not spend your lifetime with your husband, since his lifetime may end well before yours. Odile probably wasn’t planning on losing Porfirio only months after marrying him, but knew he wouldn’t be around when she was 95. I would not be without my husband now, even knowing there is a significant probability I will be without him later. However, it is a cloud that hovers above our marriage.

I handle it the best way I know how: I read the obituaries. Just to collect data on when my husband is going to die. I don’t like surprises. Every morning I check the obituaries in the local paper (the most relevant population). My husband, who doesn’t like to dwell on his upcoming demise, feels this habit is a touch morbid. What he doesn’t realize is my interpretation of the data varies with my mood.

On a morning when I am feeling loving toward my husband, the conversation will go like this: “Oh, Peter died. He was 59. Two years younger than you. How are you feeling honey? Is your heart OK? I love you.”

My husband, who was happily drinking his coffee until now, will start massaging his chest and mumble about how he was feeling just fine.

Then I return to the obituaries.

“Oh, Patty died. She was 93. But I guess she was a woman. Not so relevant. Good for me, though. Hmmm. It says here her husband died 32 years ago. Oh. How are you feeling honey?”

On a morning when I am really grumpy with my husband, I have an entirely different view of the same obituaries.

“Oh look. Peter died at age 59.” Lucky Mrs. Peter. She is no longer having to put up with him. Why did she get to be free of her husband, and I am still stuck with mine? Life is just not fair.

“Oh, Patty died at age 93.” And it says here her husband was thoughtful enough to die 32 years before her. God I wish I was Patty, which is concerning, as she is dead.

I love my husband, but I would prefer life without the complications that come with being a younger wife. If I have to live without my husband, I will no longer be a PY with all that entails and people will have to gossip about another couple, perhaps because she is taller, or fatter or older. But I will be without my best friend, and that will be truly punishing.

J.T. Toman lives in Boulder, Colorado, with her husband and two stepchildren. She works as an invertebrate zookeeper, and spends her free time writing, biking, running and coaxing her vegetable garden to grow.