Age differences & dating

The Boy does not want his handsome picture posted, so please go with this. He carries one. Close enough.

So, the Boy and I have been dating for a few months now. There is a bit of an age difference. We touched on it prior to even meeting in person, and decided that it would not be much of an issue. To be sure, there are life experiences that he has had that I have not, but, overall, we believe that an awareness of these differences and a resolve to treat these differences with patience and humor is key. Except, sometimes...

Boy is quite handsome, if I do say so myself. And I will: the Boy is ever so handsome. He also looks rather dashing and distinguised and just carries himself in a regal-but-not-pretentious way. He is happy to let his hair go (a tad prematurely) gray, and the look does suit him very well. Thus, one could be forgiven for giving him a quick glance and estimating his age to be several years over what it actually is. Especially when the Boy is leaving work in a particularly dashing and distinguised charcoal pinstriped three-piece suit.

That noise you hear? That's just my heart going pitter-pat. Don't mind me. Moving on.

The other night, I had a good workout, sat in the sauna, showered, and left the gym. My post-gym outfit is cropped pants, tank top, backpack, and wet hair combed straight and topped with a stretchy headband. It is a very young look, being all rosy-cheeked from the sauna and fresh-scrubbed from the shower. If I straighten my hair, I don't look attracitve but I do look very, very young. (Think dark-haired Alice in Wonderland meets FLDS and, yes, if I straighten my hair it really is that long. Which is why I wear it curly). You could probably glance at me in my post-gym look and estimate my age at 17. So if Boy looks 7-10 years older than his actual age, and my post-gym look makes me look 7-10 years younger, we're looking at what can be perceived as a 20 year age difference when it is much less than that.

Raise your hand if you see where I'm going with this.

I was walking home from the gym on Friday evening. The Boy was walking home from his office in the aforementioned charcoal gray pinstripe pitter-pat suit. And we ran into each other. Boy was hungry, so we stopped into a charming cafe. After we were seated, I excused myself to visit the restroom and tried, unsuccessfully, to make myself look a little better. Upon return, Boy was ordering for both of us: plain medium-rare hamburger for him, veggie burger with avocado and tomato for me, and beer to share. The waitress turned and said, "Hon, I know you're with your Dad and all, but I do need to see your license."

Oh.

I complied. I do applaud efforts to combat underage drinking, after all. As I tucked away my wallet, I sternly reminded myself that now is definitely Not The Time to make any kind of comment even remotely related to the following: (1) "daddy", (2) Father's Day, or (3) trophy girlfriends (because, goodness, I'm waaaaay to humble to think that!)

Boy was a little blue. Not offended, not hurt. Not crumpled, but definitely crinkled. This is coming after a few mildly awkward comments made to him, out of my hearing, by his grad school buddies at a reunion. Also, a Botox-related* flyer landing in his mailbox. While his friends are all into IVF and getting into the top preschool and grade schools, I'm not there yet. So Boy is feeling old. And it doesn't help that while other 20-somethings have a few good years of Life Experience, I've been holed up in a library for years and years. It does help that most of my friends are his age, and that the bar-hopping-till-closing scene of my peers Does Not Appeal to me in the slightest. It also helps that both sets of parents don't see a moderate age gap as anything remotely worth commenting on, that we share a similar upbringing, and that we hold similar values, outlooks, and goals.

But the father/daughter comments? Those don't help. That's just ick.

And then I felt sad when I met Boy for tea on Sunday evening and noticed that his lovely shimmery silver hairs were gone. The dye job might make him look younger, but not better. Just doesn't work. His standard weekend jeans, too, were replaced by a pair of those deliberately ripped skinny hipster jeans I know I've never seen before. He (jokingly!) said that I am banned from wearing my post-gym/wet straight headbanded hair/backpack look in public until 40. I told him we had a deal if he lost the dye job and ripped jeans. He let out a great big sigh and thanked me. Partially because I suspect the deliberately ripped skinny hipster jeans were cutting off circulation and/or exerting undue influence on his diaphragm, but partially because maybe he realized that I have great taste. In jeans, yes, but also in men.

Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else. Judy Garland

* Men do Botox, too. Maybe not everywhere (yet?), but definitely in major metro areas.

***
Usefulness of the day: Moving? You'll need clean boxes. Your best bet for free, clean boxes are copy-paper boxes from your office-worker friends and wine boxes from liquor stores. Need bags for linens or clothing? Skip the trash bags and go for heavy-duty contractor bags. What? Don't look at me like that. I know I'm not the only one who crams her comforter in a trash bag on moving day.

Picture credit.