THEY HAVE TO BE OLDER THAN MY SON.

There is no wingman like God. 


I woke up to an email with this phrase as the subject line.  It turns out, I am the one that sent the email. 


I was at my favorite restaurant, Captain Jack’s, throwing back scotch and talking about boys with my 65-year-old neighbor, Diana. Pretty aggressive for a Tuesday at 4 PM. 


She is my single friend on the cul-de-sac. She is also a divorcee and is absolutely fabulous (when she orders Sauvignon Blanc, she immediately caveats with, “Please, nothing from New Zealand.” Maybe you have to witness it in person to enjoy it as much as I do. It makes me feel like we are dining First Class on the Titanic every time).


Diana was a martini and a couple of glasses of wine deep when she told me about her “rule” regarding the age cut-off of her lovers. Now, I am not a fan of rules in general, but I pride myself on being a good listener. So I perked up. 


“They have to be older than my son.” 


Brilliant.


She proceeds to tell me about a “young buck” she met at a rodeo about 5 years ago when her son was 25. Diana informed her coital candidate of “the rule” and her son’s age.


Buck, “Oh, well I am 25, too.”


It is possible that his cowboy jeans were too snug and cutting off circulation to his brain. 


“Are you sure you’re not 26…?” Diana asks. (If there was ever a place to lead a horse to water, it’s a rodeo).


After a sloppy accounting error, It turns out that 25 in buck years is actually 26 in Diana years.  So it twerked out.


I am happy for Diana, and I also wonder why we women are so hung up on age cut-offs. (And obviously, this assumes all ages are legal).


Shouldn’t we care about someone’s age as much as we want them to care about ours?

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