Somewhere between self-defense class and motorcycle school, I realized I’d become everything I used to look for in a man.

The first evening of my beginner’s motorcycle class on Zoom, I appeared to be one of the few people concerned with the “safety” portion of motorcycle safety. Several of the men were watching television or answering emails. Two friends were clearly messaging each other and laughing. One guy kept enthusiastically talking to someone offscreen while cooking. Another had somehow lifted his shirt twice, revealing an objectively spectacular torso. Once could have been an accident, but twice felt like someone really needed some attention.

I was taking notes like a nerd.

This is apparently who I am now.

I’m 51 years old, recently separated after a long marriage, with two mostly grown children and a life that looks very different from the one I had a few years ago. I expected some reinvention and maybe more crafts and true crime documentaries; I didn’t expect quite so much safety equipment.

Gutter Water, Just in Case

I lift weights and sleep with a crowbar and small axe next to my bed. I took a women’s Krav Maga self-defense class where a man in a red padded suit attacked us one by one. I received a portable tire inflator with an electronic pressure gauge for Christmas and was thrilled.

A few years ago, I took a Community Emergency Response Team (CERT) course, which taught me how to respond to disasters until I promptly forgot most of it. What I did retain was an enthusiasm for disaster preparedness, and now half my garage is an earthquake kit. I own multiple methods of water purification, including a high-grade filter bottle I became obsessed with after a trip to Cuba because it could theoretically allow me to drink gutter water.

I do not currently have a scenario in which I need to drink gutter water. I simply enjoy knowing that I could. Much like having a full tank of gas, knowing it’s waiting for me in a giant plastic container next to my astronaut food makes me feel invincible.

More recently, I took a gun-safety and shooting course, which taught me how to safely handle and fire a gun, and now I was spending several nights learning how not to kill myself on a motorcycle so I could get my M1 endorsement.

The Scooter Incident

I’d been very clear about my intentions. When the instructors asked what I hoped to get out of the course, I told them I wanted a scooter I could ride to the beach, and they even pulled one out for me so I could try it.

I spent about 30 minutes happily cruising around on it before returning to the motorcycle for the rest of the course. I stayed on the motorcycle for the practical exam, too, because my inner bully dared me to.

One of the men finally asked if I was going to go back to the scooter.

“No.”

So he took it.

For the remainder of the motorcycle course, I rode the motorcycle while he zipped around on my adorable little beach scooter.

I didn’t emerge from my marriage with a vision board featuring firearms, emergency water, and a motorcycle. I just kept doing things that sounded interesting.

Oh No, I’m My Type

Then somewhere between learning how to clear a firearm and discovering why they tell you not to grab the front brake too aggressively, I realized something unsettling.

I had spent much of my life being attracted to men who were capable.

I liked men who were adventurous. Strong. Men who knew how to do things. Men who could handle themselves in an emergency, drive the fun vehicle, fix the problem, take me somewhere I hadn’t been before.

At 51, I had accidentally become one of them.

Passenger Princess

This realization was particularly funny because the younger, very capable surfer I’ve been seeing has recently developed a great enthusiasm for having me drive him around.

I call him my passenger princess.

He likes it. More alarmingly, I like it too.

There’s something deeply satisfying about pulling up, collecting a man, and taking him somewhere. This is not how I was taught heterosexuality when I was younger. I thought I was supposed to be the passenger. The man would have the motorcycle, and I would climb on behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.

Instead, I’m currently working toward the legal ability to put a younger man on the back of my scooter and take him to the beach with his surfboard.

It had never occurred to me that some of the qualities I found most attractive in men were things I might enjoy becoming myself.

There were people to raise. A marriage to tend to. Work. Groceries. Appointments. The thousand invisible maintenance tasks that make up an adult life. Then my kids grew up, my marriage ended, and suddenly there was space where all that certainty used to be.

Apparently I filled it with an earthquake kit and a motorcycle.

Twenty-five-year-old me would probably have been terrified of half the things 51-year-old me is doing.

I’m not becoming fiercely independent because I’ve decided men are unnecessary.

Please.

I love men.

I enjoy dating them. I enjoy sleeping with them. I enjoy judging them when they inexplicably lift their shirts during a motorcycle safety class. 

I just no longer require them to have all the fun skills.

And if I eventually find the actual man of my dreams, fantastic.

I’ll bring him a helmet.

He can look cute and hold his surfboard with one hand and my waist with the other.