Disclaimer: I’m writing this blog post to stop me from texting this boy I used to know.
After two full glasses of Pear Cider – amazing Pear Cider – with my salad tonight (why the hell didn’t I order a burger and fries?) – I’m ready to send a little something that I think sounds racy and sexy, but I’m sure in sober reality would only come off as drunkenly sloppy and kinda pathetic.
Right now, I want to tell him, “I miss you. I want to breath you in.”
Then I wonder, do I want to “breath” him in or “breathe” him in….shit. I hate spelling.
And what the hell am I trying to say anyways?
And is it only racy in my brain, polluted with the highest ideals of passion, as established by the Elizabethan Era?
And why the hell did I order that second pint of cider?
But back to dinner. Conversation tonight touched on various topics, to include: past lovers, dating faux pas, Mexico, growing old, periods, feminism, and what exactly drives me to always date younger men.
I had several colorful responses in regards to dating younger men. I made a stamina joke (or two) and started thinking about The Boy. Then, I had a revelation: I’ve almost always dated younger men because of how immature I used to be in relationships. Now, I’m not talking FULL FLEDGED MRS. ROBINSON stuff here, these guys have been 2-3 (sometimes 4) years younger than I…always very legal; not always very classy.
Either way, I think I dated younger guys because, as far as boyfriends go, I’m still the high school girl just waiting to find a “will you go to Homecoming with me? Check yes or no” note in her locker. I’m still the giddy young girl who thinks the back seat of the car was invented for making out and needs to be home by 10. I’m the band geek with a crush on the varsity quarterback. My palms still get sweaty. I laugh too loud. I talk too fast. I’m clumsy with my movements and my over-intellectualized jokes fall flat.
Ugh. I’m so incredibly immature….or at least, I always felt that way.
When I say I felt immature in the relationship realm, I mean I was a pretty late bloomer:
My first kiss: Age 17.
My first boyfriend: Age 17 (the relationship consisted of 3 months, 5 dates, and him dumping me the day after prom because I was going to college in Connecticut and he said he’d cheat on me if we tried to stay together…) This guy was older than me (by nearly 4 years).
My first Broken Heart: Age 20. I spent spring break sitting on my Aunt and Uncle’s sofa eating Thin Mints and watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek.
My first “Capital B” Boyfriend: Age 23.
My first/second/third rebound: Age 25.
My first lover: Age 27.
Why did I never pursue an older man, T asked, as dinner was ending. I answered: they scared the hell out of me.
Older guys (by their nature) make me feel silly. Young, naive, and usually insecure. I wrote a whole dating column about it once…
Their experience scares me.
I feel like they wouldn’t want to put up with my antics and my games. They wouldn’t understand my spontaneous combustible laughter during *ahem* intimate moments. I fear they wouldn’t appreciate my goofy observations, simple questions, or flaky and largely unfocused ever-changing life goals.
But, I think my opinions are shifting. I’m not sure if its the cider talking, or if I’m ready to set hard and fast boundaries on my dating window: single men, over the age of 30, with real jobs, real goals, real life experience and an appreciation for sheets made of high thread counts, not t-shirts.
I think I’m finally ready for a real adult relationship with a real grown up man. One who would be more likely seduced with, “Could I interest you in a glass of Pinot?” rather than, “Wanna come over and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”