Inner and outer

Among our guests were two Italian men, both 62 years old. Both still had their hair, neither was fully grey, neither wore glasses, both were physically active men who had little apparent extra weight. But the difference between the two! One was bouncy, active, energetic, almost falling over himself to be noticed. Nando had described him to me as a cross between Mickey Rourke and Al Pacino, and that was an uncannily accurate description. The other man radiated grey -- not his hair, not the pallor of his skin, but the way he moved, sat, conversed. He was withdrawn, hunched over, internalized. In the photos, the one seemed closer to 40, the other to 70.

"It’s all the way you feel," I insisted to Nando. "It’s what’s inside, how you project. That’s more important than the facelift." But I looked at the faux "before and after" of myself and wasn’t entirely convinced.

Seconds

Nando, I figure, would be married again within a year, to an Italian more in synch with his image of himself. I had decided this long ago, and it has nothing to do with my appearance. He would be the first to admit that I have aged pretty well, better than he has. Nor does he have anyone particular in mind. Rather, that’s the way Italian men are; that is what they need. A second wife wouldn’t make him laugh as much as I do, but she might calm him down, make him feel more important, less threatened.