When it comes to dating, we all have preferences and typically, I date younger. At 48, I tend to date men 30-45 years old. Some friends criticize me – others cheer me on.
Against my better judgment, I agreed to a date with someone that was only 27 years old. When I say that I felt “instant regret” – I am NOT exaggerating.
My date arrived (an hour late) in a huge, old car circa 1980. He was leaned back so far in his seat that I couldn’t see him through the window (aka: “pimpin”). I hesitantly got in the car as he texted a few people (on a phone that barely had a screen between cracks) and told me he had to stop for gas. I chuckled under my breath as we got to the gas station and I watched him get out. To my amazement, his jeans were barely covering his assets revealing several inches of plaid boxers (aka: “sag”). He proceeded to put in $7.00 of gas and I had to adjust my bifocals. Was this really happening? Was I being punk’d?
He smiled at me through the window – one silver tooth glinting in the sun. My stomach flip flopped and he climbed back into his almost fully-reclined seat. I immediately knew I needed an escape. I faked an urgent call and insisted on going home. He begrudgingly obliged at which time he leaned in and kissed me. I was in shock and sat rigid with wide eyes as he whispered, “See you later, Mommy”. I have never been so mortified while also on the brink of almost laughing my ass off.
Let’s just say – there was no rescheduled date for Junior and my hard low number is now 30.
My advice? Keep smiling through the setbacks…life is just too short to dwell on your mistakes.
