The upside of dating manthers is that at least I seem young by comparison. Recent events have conspired to make me feel like the grandma of the speed dating circuit.
First there was the college guy, who proved that not only am I chronologically too old date college kids, but also conversationally.
The young dude asked what I like to do. I offered up some answers that I no longer remember, but at the time thought were reasonably cool. In other words, I definitely didn’t mention my interest in gardening, cats or reading. Oh, and he asked where I live, and I explained that my house is near the art museum.
In response, he pointedly told me about how he lives with five of his college buddies. “I don’t do too many mature things,” he said. “We’re not going to the art museum anytime soon.” Ouch. Was that pain coming from my pride or my creaky, old-lady hip?
Then there was the questionner.
Him: How old are you?
Him: Wow, I thought you were older.
Me: Um, thanks. [And the really sad part is that I wasn’t being sarcastic. My aging ears couldn’t quite hear him, so I assumed that he said “younger” until he elaborated.]
Him: ‘Cause, you know, all the women here seem to be like older, like 35.
Me: [Finally getting that I’ve been insulted.] Oh.