I met a boy today—total cutie-pie; dark hair; stand-up comedian by trade except when he’s working on a small farm(!!); and at one point he said to me that he was sore because he’d done “this ballet barre workout” yesterday. Ha ha! How awesome is that?
When he mentioned he was 26, I was thinking, well, that’s not so bad—he’s only four years younger than me.
About two blissful seconds went by before I remembered that I’m not 30. I’m 30-six. Ten years older than cutie-pie. When I started college, he was in third grade.
And guess what, a friend of mine’s 30th birthday celebration is tonight. Yay for him. He could reasonably date cutie-pie, except that he’s straight and in a relationship.
Anyway, his party doesn’t start until 10:00pm. Listen, I can stay out until 10:00pm, but I don’t think I can go out at 10:00pm anymore.
Excuse me while I turn my hearing aid off and count the liver spots on my hands.
(No shit, I’m getting liver spots on my hands.)