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Is age really just a number? I can say, from experience, that it certainly is not. I am in the midst of an eight-month slump in my now nonexistent dating life. So, feeling slightly undesirable and kind of like everyone thought I had scales underneath my clothes, I accepted a date from someone who was definitely not my type.

When I first met him, he was really nice and I assumed he was trying to make me feel comfortable in my new environment – that is, until he asked me out on a legit date. My first inclination was to say ‘no;’ not because he was a troll or anything, but mainly because I think all men are trolls and am the most awkward person in the dating situation, mainly for two reasons: If I don’t lubricate the situation with alcohol, I have nothing to say, but if I drink I usually end up making out with my date because, for some reason, making out is less awkward than speaking. But, due to intense peer pressure, I accepted.

Approximately half way through my first martini I knew the ‘zsa zsa zu’ (or “that spark,” for non-Sex and the City fans) just wasn’t there, but I didn’t want to be a bitch and jump in a cab with the excuse that I forgot to turn off my straightening iron, so I endured for two more martinis and a couple games of pool. At this point, I was dying to get back to my book at my apartment and immediately call my best friend and inform her that not only am I an awful person, but I will also spend my life alone. My date was a complete gentleman and walked me to a cab, and on the way we stumbled onto the subject of my impending graduation from college. I knew he was older than me – possibly 28 – and me being 21, seven years is manageable. But then, the now-troll wouldn’t spill his graduation year and I was getting more internally hysterical by the moment. Then he dropped it: 1991. For those of you who are not great with math, that would make him 39! My stomach literally fell out of my butt and I wanted to throw myself in front of a moving cab.

After he revealed to me that he was practically twice my age, I promptly ended the date, but since we worked in close proximity of each other I didn’t want to pull the total bitch move of the handshake – I mean, I did get three martinis out of being with the geriatric. So I went for the side-cheek kiss, but he snaked around and kissed me on the lips! After having forty-year-old mouth on mine, it was time to shamefully climb into the cab and end my life.

In the end, this experience wasn’t so horrifying because he was forty, but believe me, that played a huge part. The real problem was that he withheld this vital information. I mean, I guess there is no good way to drop it in – ‘hey, I am old enough to be your dad,’ would have totally killed my buzz. Needless to say, I have yet to be on another date because I am frankly terrified. Now, I am not saying that a large age gap is a total deal breaker (look at Whitney and Ray J! Totally one for the storybooks), but I just couldn’t imagine bringing my forty-year-old boyfriend home to meet my 31-year-old brother…something about that just screams Deliverance.

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