Once, in a moment of passionate disgust, I threw my hands into the air and declared, “THE NEXT TIME I DATE A GUY IN HIS 20’s, I’D BETTER BE WELL INTO MY 40’s!”
I’ve drawn this line in this sand several times and hastily erased it while gulping down the heady liqueur of “boyish charm.” What can I say, a mischievous grin and juvenile sense of humor is kinda like my romance kryptonite. It wears me down until I find myself in the throes of a passionate make-out session followed by a week of wearing the “scarf of shame” because, for some reason, modern science still has not discovered a cure for the common hickey. Readers, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure guys in their 30’s don’t give girls hickey’s…
I’ve dated a lot of younger guys. Ok, true confession: I’ve exclusively dated younger guys. But I’m done. This time, for real. Which shouldn’t be too hard since I’m technically on a dating hiatus right now and focusing on getting good grades, repairing my soul, practicing yoga, finding peace with squirrels, and developing a better ear for classical music. I’m a busy girl and I’m too old and tired to play childish dating games.
*Pours another glass of wine from the box, takes a sip and sighs*
Still, I can’t help but look back fondly on some of the man-child genotype boys I’ve dated in the past. The first and most epic was Kyle. Our relationship was fun while it lasted, but just didn’t end well. He essentially broke up with me the way you expect your elementary school “boyfriend” to “break up” with you at recess. He said that “it wasn’t fun anymore” and then ran off to play with the other girl on the monkey bars. For a long time, I wished he’d fall off those figurative monkey bars into a literal case of genital warts, but anymore, I usually laugh about the passions of young lovers and that first time you realize “heartbreak” is just a euphemism for “sucker punch.”
The latest and greatest Man-Child was like the placebo band-aid you give a kindergartener with an invisible “owie.” It doesn’t do anything to heal or help them, but somehow they feel better after sticking that Hello Kitty bandage across their forearm, so you just kinda let it go.
Mr. Hello Kitty always made me laugh. And as Marilyn Monroe so brilliantly put it, “If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.” One day, after I had folded his laundry, cleaned his room, baked him cookies and scraped the dried cat shit off his floor, I realized I was in too deep. I was stuck in that one-sided relationship quicksand stage. I was unable to escape. He made me laugh and I cleaned up dried cat shit with a paint scraper. Fortunately, I moved about a month later, spurring a natural end to playing housewife/mama.
We ended amicably. I think of him and smile and sometimes laugh, but I’m happy we on different paths.
I thought of Mr. Hello Kitty today when the Lemonheads’ cover of Mrs. Robinson came on the radio. I was so much older than him; 4 years older with about two decades more life experience crammed into those years. Whenever I question what vodka-induced lack of good judgment drove me to go all Mrs. Robinson on him, I remind myself how he made me laugh, and that was good enough for then and there.
Now, I’m happy to announce the Mrs. Robinson act has come to an end without an encore. When I start dating again, it will only be age-appropriate men….at least until I turn 40. Then, all bets are off.
PS: Talk about growing pains, thank Goodness I’m not in High School anymore!
*Editor’s Note: Not sure how many people this post will reach. My WordPress is set up to automatically post to the Singletonista Facebook Page and my Twitter account, but I’m currently fasting from Facebook and Twitter, so I won’t be able to follow up interactions in those media.