Age Is a Number. Maturity Is a Choice.

I turned 30 recently. On a unicorn while playing guitar, apparently. I can hardly believe it. Am I really this old? Ha. I don’t feel old. I feel better than I ever have and I would dare say I’m cuter now than I was five years ago. So go me!

I’ve always been biased about dating younger men… I jokingly tell guy friends that they don’t become “acceptable” to date until age 30. Part of the reason is what I call Man Child Syndrome. Many men suffer from MCS (a very serious condition, I assure you, that prevents men from growing up and becoming responsible, committed adults). But what I’ve come to realize is that age has little to do with it. Hell, Joseph was a 32 year old man child who would play StarCraft for hours and forget to feed himself. 

I meet Flash on match.com. He emails me a thoughtful, interesting message and his pictures suggest he’s a handsome fellow.  AND I’m only slightly agitated by the fact he graduated from the University of M*ch*g*n. Oh. Wait. He’s 23. Shit. I don’t want to ignore him – so I write a nice, witty reply (duh) but I include at the end “I see we have quite an age difference… thoughts?”

His response is good. He says: “Our age difference doesn't bother me at all. I am a fun 20-something, but I'm looking for something meaningful.” He goes on to say “I want to start a family in the not-so-distant future as well. I'm not going to rush to the altar, but that's not prudent regardless of one's age. I want to meet the woman of my dreams, who challenges me and inspires me, and who I love unconditionally.” Well alright. Game on.

We meet for drinks near Foggy Bottom. He’s dressed very sharply – looks great in a blazer – and I’m relieved to not feel old around him. Our conversation at the bar (over good whiskey I might add) is sparkling. It’s comfortable and easy. It’s flirty and fun. Flash is doing and saying all of the right things.

THEN. We’re talking about our career goals. He tells me, without any shred of doubt or sarcasm, that he’s going to be president of the United States someday. I smile – this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this recently (ah the joys of dating in DC). But to be fair the other guy is Scottish and thus CAN’T be the POTUS.  Flash says jokingly “I can’t date a woman who can’t see herself being First Lady.” Whoa. Pump. The. Brakes.

I battle an internal struggle because on the one hand, Flash is highly principled, mature, knows himself well, has integrity and has values/morals that are aligned with mine.  BUT doesn’t the fact I’ve kissed many girls preclude me from public office? Ha. Do I really see myself as a politician’s wife? I know the answer. And it bums me out.

I tell Flash that while I find him extremely appealing, I can’t sign up for the life he’s choosing. I quote a self-help book I read after my break-up (oh, there were many): “you live a life, not a relationship.” At the end of the day, I know I want a simpler existence than that of public service.

The future POTUS taught me something very valuable though… it’s not someone’s age that determines their maturity level or likelihood to be ready for a long-term relationship. Flash and I have resolved to be friends – and I have already offered my services as wing woman to help him meet some ladies. Look how mature we are! How honest and open!  Man, turning 30 has really made me super wise.   

I've Been a Wild Rover For Many a Year

My goal for 2012 was to play guitar and sing at an open mic night. I accomplished that goal early in the year – in March actually! – and now I’m a regular at a bluegrass open mic night in Alexandria, Virginia.  Heck, I even have people drunkenly request that I play “that Irish song where people clap.” I have arrived, folks.

I show up and am greeted by my fellow regulars – Barry the harmonica player, Steve on bass and Kathy and Alex (the cutest married acoustic guitar duo EVER).  My friend Macie drops by and we both raise our eyebrows as a cute guy walks past our table. Well hello. On my way back from the bathroom I contemplate approaching him but he’s in a socially ambiguous situation. You know the kind where it’s unclear who’s with who and what kind of crowd it is? Like… is that his girlfriend or a coworker? Ambiguous = steer clear.

I sit back down and am enjoying the company of two younger men (Alex’s brother and friend) while we rock out to Kathy and Alex playing Zac Brown Band’s Chicken Fried. I’m belting out “you know I like my chicken fried, cold beer on a Friday night” when cute man is headed out with his ambiguous friends. He smiles at me and I smile back. Bam! Done. He literally back tracks and walks right up to me with his hand extended. “Hi, I’m Tom.” He doesn’t care that I’m in the middle of my own ambiguous situation (for all he knows I’m here with my boyfriend). I dig it. He is extremely social even with the guys at the table. A man with manners! Guess where he’s from: OHIO.  Anyone else surprised?

When it’s my turn to play, Tom is cheering and clapping the loudest. Afterward a group of us head to the Irish pub nearby for a round of Guinness (which he buys for me and my friends – again with the manners!) and Irish whiskey.  THEN. He pulls me out to dance with him and the man can dance!! Wait. A nice-mannered man from Ohio who can dance? Be still my heart.

Alex and Kathy take off and Tom and I close the bar down. We walk outside and neither one of us wants the night to end. He suggests we take a walk down to the water and I whole-heartedly endorse the suggestion. I’m in the middle of venting about a work situation when he kisses me mid-sentence. Well alright! It’s a good kiss. More bonus points for Ohio man. 

 

 

He hops the fence – not NEARLY as gracefully as I do – and we walk down to the docks. I feel like I’m in high school again. Except I wasn’t nearly cool enough to hop a fence and make out with a cute guy on some random person’s boat in high school. We finally head back to my car at 3 am. He asks me to come back to his hotel with him but is gracious when I politely decline his offer. Can’t blame a guy for trying!

He texts me the following morning from the airport to say he can’t get this one Irish song out of his head. I tell him the only cure for Wild Rover is MORE Wild Rover. Unfortunately he’s moving from Ohio to Denver so more Wild Rover in either one of our future’s is unlikely. Sigh.