When I met the older man I briefly dated, I’d been drinking. And being that we all make bad decisions once we’ve had a few, I gave him my number. My real number. If I’d known that he was two years younger than my (gasp!) mother, I probably would have given him fake digits digits instead. But I was deceived. This dude was incredibly well-preserved and rolling with some friends who appeared to be about my age. There was no way I could have guessed how much older he was.
He bought me a beer and asked me my age.
“Twenty-six,” I answered. And at that moment, it seemed appropriate to ask his age. So I did, and I got a mysterious answer: “Guess.”
I guessed. “Thirty-one?” No. “Thirty-four?” No. “Twenty-five?” No. Keep reading »