Recently I wrote this: “I’m sorry if this sounds cruel, but if you were born in nineteen-fifty-ANYTHING, you are too old for me. That’s just the way it is.”
I only know this because it’s been quoted back to me often the past few days. I don’t remember writing it, I had to read over several articles to find it, but I believe I was misunderstood- I only said “nineteen-fifty-ANYTHING” because I was being nice. My limit is 45 and a 45 year old would have been born in 1967. I can *deal* with 1967 . . . not 1960.
It did *not* mean send me messages that read: “I wasn’t born in the 50′s. I totally don’t feel or act my age. I am in outstanding physical shape. I run rings around most twenty-somethings. My last girlfriend was thirty. People always said we made a great couple.”
Are you kidding me? How *phony* is that?
Also if you have listed *anywhere* in your profile that you are looking for a “younger woman”, you are not for me. I don’t care how old you think you look or feel and I don’t care how old your last girlfriend was; this is about *you* and *me.* You say you want a “younger woman”? *I* read it as “I want a sugar baby/ trophy girlfriend.”
That ain’t ME.
So you want to buy me things? What am I gonna do with *things*? You offer to buy me anything in the world and I’m gonna tell you my dog’s out of flea medication and I forgot to get paper towels at the grocery store . . . *buy* some stupid 22 year old. Don’t buy me.
(Oh! And I *really* wanna see you pull that off- being a “sugar daddy” on your staggering bankroll of 30 k a year!)
Now you want a trophy girlfriend? Sure. I’ll ride around in your Mid Life Crisis Mobile in a bikini . . . but *you* have gotta deal with hearing my opinions nonstop. Everything you say, everything you do will remind me of some story or another: all the times when I had to call the fire department at 3 am to rescue me from my bunny outfit, how I eventually learned to just order *pizza* whenever I got stuck in one of my more elaborate costumes . . . yada, yada. And so on. You either like it or you don’t. And don’t you dare for one second think I ain’t gonna spill a milkshake all over your Mid Life Crisis Upholstery!
My favorite line: *I run rings around most twenty-somethings!*
Ha. I’m not most twenty-somethings.
The first point most older men make when they’re “proving” they can “keep up with” me is that they can drink me under the table. Dude. My GRANDMA can drink me under the table. I’m not a big drinker- three glasses of wine and I’m gone. The end. You win.
But bragging that you go to the gym for a whole hour three times a week? Please. I go to the gym for three to five hours a day, five to seven days a week! I am a complete freak of nature! I have no idea where I get the motivation, but I’m the girl you wanna *be* at the gym. I don’t think, I just go . . . and go . . . and go. And I smile the whole time. I don’t know what half the equipment I use even *does*, I just use it. And I love it.
The end. *I* win.
But I don’t want you to prove what great shape you’re in by taking *me* mountain climbing. *I* don’t want to be responsible when you need another hip replacement.
Catching on yet? I’ve given men a ten year radius in which to be born and though I might be willing to *bend* these rules under special circumstances, I cannot bend them to 1960.
Thank you for understanding. KISSES!
* The End *
(*Sigh.* Gotta love how I’m alternating “Mid-Life Crisis”/ “Spinster” and “You Are Too Old For Me!” articles in the same week!!!)