Jonah was the first and only guy that I have ever dated who is younger than me. I’ve typically always dated men on average 10 to 20 years older than me, but figured that maybe younger guys have something to offer. After all, there closer to their sexual prime than guys in their forties, have less emotional baggage and still have a somewhat naïve prospect for the future. They can’t yet be so bitter and jaded as those who have had a few more spins around the dating block. Nice idea in theory, but the practice was a little bit different.
Jonah was (or is, I guess, unless something happened since) a programmer for a funky national television station. A pop culture prince that could be a lot of fun to hang out with. We decide to go to the new Bambu on the Lake, both having truly enjoyed the now sadly missed Bamboo on Queen. He had strange facial hair, but I decided to let that slide. Creative expression and all, I guess.
Conversation was stilted, to say the least, and always elicited one of two responses. 1. Wow, you seem so mature. 2. Wow, you’re so interesting that you seem so much older than me. I was one whole year older than him. I don’t want to feel “so much older” or “so much more mature” than him. I want to be young and have fun. I am not growing old gracefully, I am fighting it every step of the way. Thanks for reminding me. And reminding me. And reminding me.
Feeling about 60, I went home and soaked my feet. After all, what else is an old broad to do?
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