We’ve often heard it said that 'a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.' That's all fine and dandy, unless you happen to be a fish that idolizes Lance Armstrong. We know what it is like to be that fish; desperate to get out there and peddle, even though we don't have any feet. As any fish who’s ever longed for a ten speed of her very own knows, it is especially hard to sit on the sidelines watching all the other fish pedaling off to Pottery Barn to register for wedding gifts. Given how many fish are out there actually riding bikes, who seem to be having a really good time, you can hardly fault your average fish for wanting that damn bike!
Sometimes you are a fish without a bicycle, so your goal is to find the perfect bike. Much of the time, however, you have a bicycle. The problem is, however, that your bicycle has a lot of problems. Some bikes are missing important parts, like the seat, so every time you try to take it somewhere you end up with a big pain in your ass. Sometimes one or more of its wheels don't work. No matter how hard you try, you can never get it to go in the direction you want. Lots of times the bike just doesn’t want to take off his training wheels and grow up, thus making it impossible for the two of you to go the long haul together.
Many fish who find themselves with bikes that don't work simply dump them by the side of the road and get new ones. Other fish (and we put ourselves in that category) want to hang on to the bike that they have. They are attached to their bikes. They have worked on their bike, investing time and emotional energy (and even a lot of cash). They are determined to cross the finish line with the bike they've chosen. Even if that bike is a Big Wheel and the race they are riding is the Tour de France.
"You'll never make it!" onlookers scream. We know better. We love this bike. And love conquers all. Even if we can't control the steering, the brakes are shot, and the only thing that works is the bell.
Welcome to the world of long term love and commitment, where irrationality, blind sentiment, and foolish determination rule. We feel your pain. We have been 'the girlfriend' and we know that when you are just a girlfriend, no one really feels very sorry for you. If someone's husband or wife leaves them they usually get quite a lot of sympathy. A woman or man married to a cheating spouse or stuck in a marriage marred by poor communication and a lack of intimacy usually gets at least a sympathetic nod. But when you are 'just the girlfriend' in a long term relationship that isn't going where you want it to, as far as sympathy goes you get nothing.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Today, A Lizard Man Asked Me Out
As a dog walker, I am on familiar and friendly terms with a number of doormen that work in my clients' buildings. I've been asked out by two of them, and would have taken each of them up on it if one hadn't been 21, and the other hadn't been married. But today, somebody else that works in one of the buildings asked me out. Somebody behind the scenes. He is obese and looks like a lizard and works with the garbage in the back elevator. And socially, there's nothing wrong with the guy. Which makes it worse, because that means that he used sound, critical analysis to determine the credibility of us as a couple.
Now, I'm not being mean when I say that he looks like a lizard. He just does. He has scaly skin under his eyes and a gap in his front teeth through which his tongue darts out. He appears to be about 10 years older than me. He may be somebody's dreamboat, he's not mine. And I am upset that he continues to hit on me, not only because I feel violated, which I do, but also because he is apparently he has a chance of making it happen with me.
And yet somehow, my sense of inequality would fail to be riled if George Clooney, or someone else out of my league, goosed me while I was leaning over to clean up some dog poop. Oh well.
I used to be real friendly with him, but I have turned into a cold fish. I have to use the service elevator in that building, and I pray to God I won't be caught in there with him and the smelly garbage with him tomorrow. On Tuesday, he told me I was "a hard working woman," and he needed to find someone like me. On Wednesday, he started putting his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me. You know the move. Everyday day now I get the hand. He's got as far as the intro, the old "so what do you do with yourself when you're not working?" I've been able to evade any further advances because it is a very short time I have to see him every day, only a trip from the 11th to the 1st floor, but I feel that one day soon I'm just going to have to shoot him down.
Now, I'm not being mean when I say that he looks like a lizard. He just does. He has scaly skin under his eyes and a gap in his front teeth through which his tongue darts out. He appears to be about 10 years older than me. He may be somebody's dreamboat, he's not mine. And I am upset that he continues to hit on me, not only because I feel violated, which I do, but also because he is apparently he has a chance of making it happen with me.
And yet somehow, my sense of inequality would fail to be riled if George Clooney, or someone else out of my league, goosed me while I was leaning over to clean up some dog poop. Oh well.
I used to be real friendly with him, but I have turned into a cold fish. I have to use the service elevator in that building, and I pray to God I won't be caught in there with him and the smelly garbage with him tomorrow. On Tuesday, he told me I was "a hard working woman," and he needed to find someone like me. On Wednesday, he started putting his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me. You know the move. Everyday day now I get the hand. He's got as far as the intro, the old "so what do you do with yourself when you're not working?" I've been able to evade any further advances because it is a very short time I have to see him every day, only a trip from the 11th to the 1st floor, but I feel that one day soon I'm just going to have to shoot him down.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Jagged Little Pill
When a relationship ends under devastating circumstances, the best thing to do is to take some time alone, and to not jump into anything serious. Good advice, but when you reach the two year mark, beware. I have not had one date that has made me even consider bending over far enough to shave my overgrown legs. A lovelife this barren can actually drive you a bit bonkers. My recent solution that backfired? The Celebrity Crush.
A little background about me: I have all the inclinations of your basic stalker; although I like to believe I have some modicum of impulse control. The stalker side of me reared it's ugly head recently, after developing a crush on Ryan Reynolds, the comic actor. I became immediately infatuated and proceded to google him and fantasize about how we would meet and how I could get Alanis out of the way. Of course, I usually succeed in keeping most of my movie star obsessions safely under control, due to the extremely remote chance of any one of them entering my daily orbit of doggie poop bags and donut shop lunches. This convenient barrier to obsessive behavior derailed, however, when I realized that the movie set I had been passing by with the dogs for two weeks, and which had just wrapped, was the set of Ryan's latest movie. I have since been filled with rage. WHY CAN'T I MEET MY RYAN REYNOLDS!? If I had known, I would have hung out by the set, and Ryan would probably have sauntered by with a meat sandwich. Then I would have encouraged Scruffy to chase after him, surely initializing a courtship between us.
A little background about me: I have all the inclinations of your basic stalker; although I like to believe I have some modicum of impulse control. The stalker side of me reared it's ugly head recently, after developing a crush on Ryan Reynolds, the comic actor. I became immediately infatuated and proceded to google him and fantasize about how we would meet and how I could get Alanis out of the way. Of course, I usually succeed in keeping most of my movie star obsessions safely under control, due to the extremely remote chance of any one of them entering my daily orbit of doggie poop bags and donut shop lunches. This convenient barrier to obsessive behavior derailed, however, when I realized that the movie set I had been passing by with the dogs for two weeks, and which had just wrapped, was the set of Ryan's latest movie. I have since been filled with rage. WHY CAN'T I MEET MY RYAN REYNOLDS!? If I had known, I would have hung out by the set, and Ryan would probably have sauntered by with a meat sandwich. Then I would have encouraged Scruffy to chase after him, surely initializing a courtship between us.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Jessica Biel Wants My Ass
I've always been small boned, and extremely small waisted. But not in the butt. My grandmother, who I resembled in physique, had a nickname: Big Buns. Now, it's okay to be known as "Big Buns" at 60 years old, but I didn't exactly enjoy having the name bequeathed to me in my 20's.
This past month, I've been eating whatever I want. Fried foods and rich desserts, anything. I've also allowed myself to exercise whenever I liked, which turned out to be 0 times. Now, I am going out to one or two upcoming events and I have nothing to wear. It seems that I have turned into a porker.
I guess there is something wrong in my brain, you know, with that mechanism that's supposed to tell me that I'm full. It's not working. Example: Today I ate chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a Subway for lunch, an Amy's meal for dinner, and a mint brownie and, I can't even say it, a little less than A QUART of Edy's Slow Churned, half the fat ice cream. I was surprised, because I don't usually like Edy's, or dietetic dessert in general, but this peppermint stick was so f-ing good, it tasted exactly like full fat. Unfortunately, eating, according to the nutritional description, seven servings of the stuff was probably not okay.
The reason why I turned into a disgusting pig is because of my sister, who, in a characteristic diatribe against our society's idealization of the underweight female, raged and gnashed her teeth in response to the self-criticism I directed toward my recently expanding body.
"If you think that you're overweight at your size, that's sick. You've always had a body image problem, I've always thought that."
"Cool," I said, tired of explaining the phenomenon of "skinny-fat," where size four jeans may still conceal a rippled jiggly mass of fat stuck on a size my five foot one, size two frame. "Maybe I do have a body image problem," I said. "That's good news. Then I can actually eat anything I want, and however gross I think I look, I'll know it's all in my mind."I have now increased two sizes, and do not fit into the fat pants I bought at the time of the of the body dysmorphic disorder discussion. I realized I do not have a body image problem, it is my sister who has an (other-directed) body image problem. It is directed specifically towards me, and is a by-product of my regrettable reign as big sister bitch-tyrant, where through torture and mind control, she sees me as some sort of idealized physical being.
Now one month later, when I have a skirt on, it looks as if I am wearing an old-fashioned bustle underneath. It's a shame they have gone out of style. My waist is still kinda small, but my ass has expanded. It is what I would call a "birth-control butt." With my clothes off, I notice that each buttock is a little bigger than the size of my head. And it is lumpy. So instead of washboard abs, I have a washboard ass. I can't even describe what it looks like, because I've never seen anything like it before. Wait, let me take another look. Oh my God. The ass sticks out like Jessica Biel's, but as if she was in a funny mirror that dwarfed everything but her butt. A pair of toddlers could stand under it and be completely shielded from a violent rainstorm. That is not an exaggeration.
I don't understand the popular notion that 'women dress for other women.' My ex-boyfriend would tell me things like that, as if he had consulted some encylcopedia of female behavior. I found out later that these are things his ex-wife, (who he still worshipped) would tell him as canons of womanhood, which he would kindly pass on to me so I could benefit from her wisdom. I disagreed with most of them, along with "all women are constantly in competition over men." In my opinion, I would usually win the argument, which he would then rebut with the statement, "well, I guess you're just not like most women." Anyway, this dressing for other women business is no different. I mean, occasionally I will bathe for other women, like if my sister is coming over after I go jogging I might take a shower , but I really only dress for male attention, and sometimes for self-expression, but certainly not all the time. If it weren't for cute guys walking around out there, I would wear L.L. Bean boots, Adidas shorts and fleece shirts everyday.
Which would be kinda the same reason I started eating all this food; it had been so long since I'd had a date that led anywhere exciting. Looking back at all the hours logged at the gym and calorie restrictions, measured against miserable returns in the dating scene, I just decided it wasn't worth it. The pleasure I got from eating fattening foods was more rewarding than what I was getting back from the guys. It's too hard. The men are so bad, and food is so good. It is getting harder to fight the good fight.
This past month, I've been eating whatever I want. Fried foods and rich desserts, anything. I've also allowed myself to exercise whenever I liked, which turned out to be 0 times. Now, I am going out to one or two upcoming events and I have nothing to wear. It seems that I have turned into a porker.
I guess there is something wrong in my brain, you know, with that mechanism that's supposed to tell me that I'm full. It's not working. Example: Today I ate chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a Subway for lunch, an Amy's meal for dinner, and a mint brownie and, I can't even say it, a little less than A QUART of Edy's Slow Churned, half the fat ice cream. I was surprised, because I don't usually like Edy's, or dietetic dessert in general, but this peppermint stick was so f-ing good, it tasted exactly like full fat. Unfortunately, eating, according to the nutritional description, seven servings of the stuff was probably not okay.
The reason why I turned into a disgusting pig is because of my sister, who, in a characteristic diatribe against our society's idealization of the underweight female, raged and gnashed her teeth in response to the self-criticism I directed toward my recently expanding body.
"If you think that you're overweight at your size, that's sick. You've always had a body image problem, I've always thought that."
"Cool," I said, tired of explaining the phenomenon of "skinny-fat," where size four jeans may still conceal a rippled jiggly mass of fat stuck on a size my five foot one, size two frame. "Maybe I do have a body image problem," I said. "That's good news. Then I can actually eat anything I want, and however gross I think I look, I'll know it's all in my mind."I have now increased two sizes, and do not fit into the fat pants I bought at the time of the of the body dysmorphic disorder discussion. I realized I do not have a body image problem, it is my sister who has an (other-directed) body image problem. It is directed specifically towards me, and is a by-product of my regrettable reign as big sister bitch-tyrant, where through torture and mind control, she sees me as some sort of idealized physical being.
Now one month later, when I have a skirt on, it looks as if I am wearing an old-fashioned bustle underneath. It's a shame they have gone out of style. My waist is still kinda small, but my ass has expanded. It is what I would call a "birth-control butt." With my clothes off, I notice that each buttock is a little bigger than the size of my head. And it is lumpy. So instead of washboard abs, I have a washboard ass. I can't even describe what it looks like, because I've never seen anything like it before. Wait, let me take another look. Oh my God. The ass sticks out like Jessica Biel's, but as if she was in a funny mirror that dwarfed everything but her butt. A pair of toddlers could stand under it and be completely shielded from a violent rainstorm. That is not an exaggeration.
I don't understand the popular notion that 'women dress for other women.' My ex-boyfriend would tell me things like that, as if he had consulted some encylcopedia of female behavior. I found out later that these are things his ex-wife, (who he still worshipped) would tell him as canons of womanhood, which he would kindly pass on to me so I could benefit from her wisdom. I disagreed with most of them, along with "all women are constantly in competition over men." In my opinion, I would usually win the argument, which he would then rebut with the statement, "well, I guess you're just not like most women." Anyway, this dressing for other women business is no different. I mean, occasionally I will bathe for other women, like if my sister is coming over after I go jogging I might take a shower , but I really only dress for male attention, and sometimes for self-expression, but certainly not all the time. If it weren't for cute guys walking around out there, I would wear L.L. Bean boots, Adidas shorts and fleece shirts everyday.
Which would be kinda the same reason I started eating all this food; it had been so long since I'd had a date that led anywhere exciting. Looking back at all the hours logged at the gym and calorie restrictions, measured against miserable returns in the dating scene, I just decided it wasn't worth it. The pleasure I got from eating fattening foods was more rewarding than what I was getting back from the guys. It's too hard. The men are so bad, and food is so good. It is getting harder to fight the good fight.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
NYC Men Stink
All of a sudden, I was besodden with weariness. That's not mine. Actually, my friend Sally said it while we were browsing the personal essay section at the Barnes and Noble, after leaving my favorite hamburger joint on 72nd street. 'Favorite hamburger joint' is kind of misleading, implying a hierarchy of favorites which would indicate a sense of identification with my community and exhuberance about NYC. Like I could have family come out of town and introduce them to my collection of avenues and neighborhoods that have names like Nolita and Noho, my relationship to NYC like that of new friends who have started to exchange bits and pieces of their personalities. But I don't really feel that way about New York City; I don't really like living here; I just really like that hamburger place. A dive bar that serves comfort food. Sunken, cavernous, wood, with waiters that wear their own clothing and an attitude that defies the New York frenetic pace. The place that Zagat forgot.
I was trying to diet because I would be leaving for the beach in 12 days, and had gained a shocking 10 pounds in reaction to two failed dates and because of the revelation that I now much preferred vanilla cream filled donuts at Krispy Kreme to bullshit filled NYC men. Of course I couldn't diet with Sally because with us, it's all about excess. We added fries to each of our burgers and split a piece of chocolate cake. Only the cake was so suprisingly good, that I called out to the waitress across the room to bring us another piece, like a frat boy on spring break anxious for another shot of Jaeger. I can't drink so chocolate is my drug of choice.
The lunch was kind of a bookend to the most humiliating dating week I'd had since I'd started really dating again, which was only about a month ago. First, an actor I had made plans with for our third date cancelled because he had 'too much work to do,' (translation: it didn't look like he was going to get laid anytime soon.)
Then it got worse. Probably the worst rejection I've ever had without ever even going out with the guy. His name was Phil, I suppose it still is. First of all, I don't even like the name Phil. I don't trust it, Phil Donahue aside. I met Phil at a catering gig, a wedding. We were flirting and exchanging stories all night. I asked some reliable coworkers about him, who gave him a positive endorsement using words like 'ernest' and 'cute butt.' Then I cinched the deal when Phil asked me out to dinner sounds It sounds pretty pathetic when it's the woman who has to do the 'cinching', but that's what it's like in a city with a 5:1 ratio of women to men. In a city where women on every curb seem to be mugging for Vogue, complete with requisite pout.
Two days later, Phil followed up with a phone call, just to tell me he was looking forward to our date and that he would contact me when he returned to NYC from his parents. One week passed and he did not call. Just after I'd mentally filed Phil away in the 'promising date gone awry' junkyard pile located in the back of my brain, I received a phone call at 1:30am Friday night while I was enjoying a bag of kettle style popcorn.
Phil: Is this Erika? (I had apparently already made it into his phonebook.)
Me: Yes, who is this?
Phil: (Confused sounding) Phil. I thought I had the wrong number. Is this the girl I met last night at the bar on 24th street?
Me: No.
Phil: Oh, huh. I guess I have the wrong number.
Click.
So basically, not only had Phil forgotten about our date, he had also forgotten WHO I WAS. Fantastic. What does a woman have to do to get an honest kiss in New York?
I have not kissed a guy since I was well out of the city limits, a year and a half ago in my parents driveway, in front of my grandfathers window, idling in some guy's car. And even that guy, instead of asking for my number, asked if he could give me a spanking.
I was trying to diet because I would be leaving for the beach in 12 days, and had gained a shocking 10 pounds in reaction to two failed dates and because of the revelation that I now much preferred vanilla cream filled donuts at Krispy Kreme to bullshit filled NYC men. Of course I couldn't diet with Sally because with us, it's all about excess. We added fries to each of our burgers and split a piece of chocolate cake. Only the cake was so suprisingly good, that I called out to the waitress across the room to bring us another piece, like a frat boy on spring break anxious for another shot of Jaeger. I can't drink so chocolate is my drug of choice.
The lunch was kind of a bookend to the most humiliating dating week I'd had since I'd started really dating again, which was only about a month ago. First, an actor I had made plans with for our third date cancelled because he had 'too much work to do,' (translation: it didn't look like he was going to get laid anytime soon.)
Then it got worse. Probably the worst rejection I've ever had without ever even going out with the guy. His name was Phil, I suppose it still is. First of all, I don't even like the name Phil. I don't trust it, Phil Donahue aside. I met Phil at a catering gig, a wedding. We were flirting and exchanging stories all night. I asked some reliable coworkers about him, who gave him a positive endorsement using words like 'ernest' and 'cute butt.' Then I cinched the deal when Phil asked me out to dinner sounds It sounds pretty pathetic when it's the woman who has to do the 'cinching', but that's what it's like in a city with a 5:1 ratio of women to men. In a city where women on every curb seem to be mugging for Vogue, complete with requisite pout.
Two days later, Phil followed up with a phone call, just to tell me he was looking forward to our date and that he would contact me when he returned to NYC from his parents. One week passed and he did not call. Just after I'd mentally filed Phil away in the 'promising date gone awry' junkyard pile located in the back of my brain, I received a phone call at 1:30am Friday night while I was enjoying a bag of kettle style popcorn.
Phil: Is this Erika? (I had apparently already made it into his phonebook.)
Me: Yes, who is this?
Phil: (Confused sounding) Phil. I thought I had the wrong number. Is this the girl I met last night at the bar on 24th street?
Me: No.
Phil: Oh, huh. I guess I have the wrong number.
Click.
So basically, not only had Phil forgotten about our date, he had also forgotten WHO I WAS. Fantastic. What does a woman have to do to get an honest kiss in New York?
I have not kissed a guy since I was well out of the city limits, a year and a half ago in my parents driveway, in front of my grandfathers window, idling in some guy's car. And even that guy, instead of asking for my number, asked if he could give me a spanking.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Youth Day Parade
First of all, thanks to y'all who have been reading and posting! Now, I wouls like to invite you all to the youth day parade! I've found out the secret to finding a nice guy- go young!!
Okay, I'm still single, ladies, and of course still hung up on the ex, but this has been a nice ego boost. I guess it's because I've been dressing better, but it still doesn't explain why all these youths have been coming onto me. I feel like a lecherous camp leader. I started talking to a 23 year old in my apartment complex. I didn't know he was that young until later, he does seem actually much more mature thnt my ex in a number of ways, so I was surprised. Anyway, I realized that life and romance has had less time to F*** these guys up! We've had a few chats in the hallway, then he invited me to a party. I wanted to ask him if I would be the oldest one there, but I was too embarassed. He is a classical musician, so I figured it might be a pretty mixed crowd. Anyway, we got to the party and, I'm almost to embarrassed to say, it was an UNDERGRAD party! Everyone was F-ing 19! And they looked 12! As I roamed through the odyssey of plastic cups and homemade bongs, I couldn't help feeling like the Fonz on Happy Days. At one point I looked around and I was standing by myself in the midle of a crowded room. I couldn't help but thinking what these kids must be saying, like "You're aunt's hot, dude." I left in 10 minutes. I was tired, I mean the party didn't start until 11:00.
Then, I felt guilty because the next day the kid calls 3 times. I think he likes me. I talked to him but instead of feeling like Demi Moore I feel like a sicky. He's invited me to another party, but I think I have to call it quits. This one starts even later. I can just see, if I continued dating him what it would be like: him, heading out at night and me sitting in my robe. "Come over here and give momma a kiss. Momma goin' to miss her baby." I would bellow.
Okay, I'm still single, ladies, and of course still hung up on the ex, but this has been a nice ego boost. I guess it's because I've been dressing better, but it still doesn't explain why all these youths have been coming onto me. I feel like a lecherous camp leader. I started talking to a 23 year old in my apartment complex. I didn't know he was that young until later, he does seem actually much more mature thnt my ex in a number of ways, so I was surprised. Anyway, I realized that life and romance has had less time to F*** these guys up! We've had a few chats in the hallway, then he invited me to a party. I wanted to ask him if I would be the oldest one there, but I was too embarassed. He is a classical musician, so I figured it might be a pretty mixed crowd. Anyway, we got to the party and, I'm almost to embarrassed to say, it was an UNDERGRAD party! Everyone was F-ing 19! And they looked 12! As I roamed through the odyssey of plastic cups and homemade bongs, I couldn't help feeling like the Fonz on Happy Days. At one point I looked around and I was standing by myself in the midle of a crowded room. I couldn't help but thinking what these kids must be saying, like "You're aunt's hot, dude." I left in 10 minutes. I was tired, I mean the party didn't start until 11:00.
Then, I felt guilty because the next day the kid calls 3 times. I think he likes me. I talked to him but instead of feeling like Demi Moore I feel like a sicky. He's invited me to another party, but I think I have to call it quits. This one starts even later. I can just see, if I continued dating him what it would be like: him, heading out at night and me sitting in my robe. "Come over here and give momma a kiss. Momma goin' to miss her baby." I would bellow.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Channeling My Inner Demi Moore (Dating Young Men)
If you've been reading, you'll remember that LANE, first in a series of barely post pubescent suitors, never called me back. I was just wondering, why? I figured it was because he saw my crow's feet. But I bet it was because I'm uncool. I had totally blanked on what happened at the end of the date. When we exited the Starbucks, he made all these references to 'next time.' Then we got on the subway together, and when it arrived at my stop, I said goodbye and when I turned around, walked into the pole. I thought it was kind of endearing, but the more I think about it, it must have looked kind of dorky. Anyway, it was no great loss, as shortly thereafter, a door opened to reveal another, even younger, man/boy. And the door did literally open; George is an actual doorman at one of the buildings where I walk dogs. He's 22(gasp.) He's seen me at my worst, (7:30am, last night's eyeliner, bedhead hair.) The absolute best thing about it is that he seemed so desperate for me to go out with him. "I'd really appreciate just talking to you." (Well intentioned lie.) "I just get really shy and nevous around you." (My beauty and worldliness is overwhelming to him.) He's so polite, and his social skills seemed more refined than guys my age. Most of the time it's, "So, you wanna hang out sometime?" Duh.
But I have a hard time coming up with topics of conversation every morning. If I ended up seriously dating him, would our morning conversations end up mimicking the lame exchanges so far that seem to shed a glare on the 14 year age gap?
Conversation 1: Me: "So what was your major?
Him:"I don't know yet. I'll wait til I get back from the navy."
Conversation 2: Me: "So what did you do over the weekend?"
Him:"I went to the movies."
Me: "See anything good?"
Him:"Yeah, Beerfest. It was okay."
Me: "Yeah, I was going to see that, but I didn't know if it would be as good as American Pie." (At this point, I realize he was not even a fertalized egg when I begged my cousin to take me to Porky's, so what can I really say?)
I didn't end up going out with the 22 year old. I almost agreed, after my friend John said "I wouldn't care about the fact that he's 22 one iota. Not one iota." This, knowing I had only had two dates in two years. But even though I loved the attention, and he's a lovely young man, I just couldn't. I mean, the poor guy is leaving for basic training in October. Jesus. Didn't anyone tell this kid a war is on?
But I have a hard time coming up with topics of conversation every morning. If I ended up seriously dating him, would our morning conversations end up mimicking the lame exchanges so far that seem to shed a glare on the 14 year age gap?
Conversation 1: Me: "So what was your major?
Him:"I don't know yet. I'll wait til I get back from the navy."
Conversation 2: Me: "So what did you do over the weekend?"
Him:"I went to the movies."
Me: "See anything good?"
Him:"Yeah, Beerfest. It was okay."
Me: "Yeah, I was going to see that, but I didn't know if it would be as good as American Pie." (At this point, I realize he was not even a fertalized egg when I begged my cousin to take me to Porky's, so what can I really say?)
I didn't end up going out with the 22 year old. I almost agreed, after my friend John said "I wouldn't care about the fact that he's 22 one iota. Not one iota." This, knowing I had only had two dates in two years. But even though I loved the attention, and he's a lovely young man, I just couldn't. I mean, the poor guy is leaving for basic training in October. Jesus. Didn't anyone tell this kid a war is on?
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