My dating life is pretty much nonexistent, but thanks to my beautiful friend Jen, I stay entertained with her rendezvouswith different New Yorkers, from interns (my personal favorite dating season) to….well, not interns in this case. Her latest endeavor was something that neither of us were ready for, and supports my idea that at least half of the people who say “I Do” to each other have absolutely no place in being there or making such a commitment (I say this as I am about to be in a wedding, to which the bride is my age, and the groom was basically growing a marijuana plant in his closet last night as we picked her up for the bachelorette party).
So I bring you my guest blogger! And her latest bout with a certain foreigner that will make you happy to make out with a guido this weekend in Belmar, just as long as you are far, far away from this creep.
In my pre-concubinage, I would have definitely categorized myself as one of those women for whom age was just a number.
During semi-intoxicated happy hour reverberations, I would vehemently argue that age only mattered when people let it matter. I would say that what really matters is where a person is in their life; the experiences they’ve had, the places they’ve traveled, the worldviews they’ve established; the factors that helped build who they are and what they think. One 33-year-old man, for instance, could easily be on the level of a 22-year-old woman, if, say, they both run rampant drinking like fish on the weekends and have similar tastes in Spanglish films and filthy bedtime behavior. The fact that one fondly remembers Depeche Mode and the other ‘N Sync is seemingly irrelevant. And, after all, women mature faster than men. Right? So, when a woman dates a significantly older man, she is merely re-righting a disrupted order laid upon her by the conventions of society. Right?
Wrong.
What I consistently forgot to address in my happy hour debate series was the number of experiences a person can have under their belt at any given age. The fact is, a man who’s been on planet Earth for 11+ years longer than a woman has clearly been around the block a few — or like, 1,000 — more times than his younger counterpart. He’s had a decade’s more worth of drunken fish evenings, one night stands, petty arguments, relationship traumas and, you know…birthdays.
Oh, and, he’s probably also had time to get married twice, divorced once, breed three children, move to a foreign country and learn their native tongue.
Or does this shit just happen to me?
Because it did. That’s right. My “boyfriend” of three months was recently put in a pretty awkward situation. You see, his wife discovered a slew of pictures on Facebook featuring him and me in…shall we call them compromising…positions. No, we’re not talking porn here. Get your mind out of the gutter. We’re like, you know, making out and shit. And, as you can imagine, that presented a problem for our Husband of the Year and his wife. She was annoyed, to say the least.
And you know what? So the fuck was I. Because, as the story goes, that rat bastard was not the one to inform me of wifey’s discovery. Instead, I got a little Facebook message from the lady of the house herself, asking why the dickens was I featured so prominently and, er, inappropriately, in this series of pictures with her husband?
Excuse me, husband you say? That’s news to me.
So, the senora and I had a heart-to-heart for a good part of the afternoon, comparing notes on our experiences with this son-of-a-bitch before we were certain that yes, he in fact had been dicking both of us over pretty extensively, and that yes, there were probably others involved as well. We resolved to visit our respective gynecological facilities for safety reasons and amicably parted ways.
The most surprising element in this debacle was the lack of bitchy cat fighting to result. Maybe I’ve just watched one too many episodes of “Jerry Springer,” but, for a little while there I was pretty concerned that my ex-boyfriend’s wife might try to like…put a hit out for me. Instead, we emailed back and forth for days, checking in on each other’s mental and physical health, and simultaneously making sure that the other hadn’t “given in” to his pleading and bull-shitting shenanigans. To this day, a whopping week later, we’re both still going strong. And I have high hopes that she will divorce his ass and send him back to the third world flea-ridden shitshack from whence he came.
Eeks, did I just write that? You’ll have to excuse me…we’ll pretend that’s not racist and chalk it up to PTSD.
You Break It You Blog It 