About halfway through lunch on Sunday, all the couples at the table – and the recently uncoupled bloke – realised that none of us live with our partners.
DD and I were the longest not-living-together couple out of the bunch, clocking up 12 years this October. That raises eyebrows and “have you had a serious talk about this” conversations in other circles.
But everyone at lunch had their own reasons for not shacking up, so there was no judgement.
There’s an SBS Insight episode titled “Love Later in Life” that explores late-life romance, marriage and companionship among older Australians.
It features stories of people finding love on dating apps in their 50s, couples choosing to live apart together and a couple who finally married when the groom turned 90.
Why on earth would you bother doing it then?
Apparently the groom asked the bride 20 years earlier what she wanted for her 70th birthday she said to get married.
He told her there were only two reasons he’d marry her: if she was pregnant or he turned 90.
And when he turned the big 9.0 he kept his word.
Some commenters on a Facebook clip of the episode said they felt sorry for the bride, noting: “Or he could have just married her because he loved her.”
Maybe.
She wanted to get married to confirm their mutual commitment, feel entirely part of the family and show that they truly needed each other after decades together.
Each to their own, but those reasons don’t resonate for me.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s bravery or cowardice that drives the decision not to cohabitate or marry again.
Are people afraid of taking the leap of faith? Are they worried about another divorce?
Conversely, do they want to wed because they are scared of being alone?
My relationship with my ex burnt out after 24 years. There were no boundaries left, no mystery and not much to talk about towards the end.
Would DD and I have lasted this long if we’d decided to move in together?
Am I worried we wouldn’t?
After having our own space for all this time, I think we’d struggle to share a home.
Never say never, but living together – let alone marrying – is a big leap.
One of my female friends reckons marriage should be a 20-year contract that you decide whether to renew.
I can see the logic in that.
I can also see the inevitability of later-life relationships becoming a game of health-related Russian roulette.
Who will be the one to succumb to poor health first? Who will become the carer?
And what are your rights if you don’t put a ring on it? Could your wishes be ignored?
A bit bleak, I know. But that can be the reality as you stumble into your 60s and roll into your 70s and beyond.
As for what happens if you don’t live together and the going gets tough …
Is it easier to walk away from the hard stuff when you’re not connected by children or joint finances?
If there is no “for better or for worse” vow and your non-spouse does the bolt, who looks after you? Your children? Your friends? Strangers?
The youngest jokes that she’ll be ceding responsibility for me to the eldest.
My friend wonders if it would be better for women to establish tiny-home villages where they all look out for each other.
I don’t know. But I am a bit nervous about this cusp-of-my-60s stage of life and what it will bring.
It’s weird listening to the lyrics of The Beatles song “When I’m 64” … because 64 no longer seems that old … but the sore joints in my hands tell me otherwise …
I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride
Doing the garden, digging the weeds
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m sixty-four?
Song of the day: The Beatles “When I’m 64”
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