I am an ageist in that it is a rare moment indeed when I befriend, nonetheless date, any human whose age is smaller than or equivalent to mine. I tend to find members of the younger generation self-absorbed, egotistical and unaware of the fact that their skinny jeans will, in fact, one day be revealed as the cause of some terminal disease. People aged twenty-seven and under lack perspective in that to them, there’s only one—theirs. This, my friends, is fucking annoying.
That said, I am currently head over heels in love with a twenty-three year old. Yes. Two, three, as in born in 1985, as in four years younger than me, as in we wouldn’t have even attended high school together, as in yes, a Baby Young Gun.
Aston and Demi notwithstanding, I can’t help but be amazed at how ingrained the social mores of this world are in that at first this genuinely felt slightly awkward to me. But after more than three months, I’ve decided whip out my under-eye cream and flare my nostrils at those who call me cradle robber. This boy has swept me off my feet and here’s why:
Baby Young Gun is the cutest most precious member of the opposite sex I have ever had the opportunity to lay eyes on. When I first saw him I took a triple take, no joke, and that never happens to me.
Baby Young Gun doesn’t play mind-fuck games. He called—not texted—the day after we first met to ask me out. When the day arrived, it was pouring rain, but I later found out that he arrived a half an hour early to the general area where we had agreed to meet in order to “find a nice place” to take me.
Baby Young Gun does not play by the “rules” because he’s unaware they exist. On our first date we were already discussing gas and diarrhea. Our third date? Dinner with his grandparents, his great-aunt and uncle and his aunt and her boyfriend. Perhaps a little early, but I could’ve cared less. He has always called me when he wanted to and said whatever comes to mind. “If you ever fart in front of me I’ll propose,” is just one example of his innocent, yet absolutely genuine nature that will always make me smile.
Baby Young Gun is the sweetest boy I have ever met. Besides my parents, no one has ever told me so many flattering things. It flustering, because I’m totally not used to it, but in a good way. My mind doesn’t know how to react and/or process so my heart just swells a little and I bury my head in whatever’s available.
Baby Young Gun makes me laugh, but never when he’s trying. Whether it’s seven a.m. in the morning (when I have to get up to teach) or three in the afternoon, this twenty-three year old can send me into a fit of giggles with one line. One night, he was to meet some of my older school friends, fabulous women who are or have been married and have grown-up kids. “Oh, so they’re around your age,” he replied.
I could go on, but I’ll stop here because it’s probably getting disgusting. Has Tuffie turned into a total sap? Probably. I mean, what the hell am I writing about after having been MIA from the BAT for three months? Is Tuffie a cougar? Likely. I mean, my favorite movie, “Sixteen Candles,” came out before he was born.
But does Tuffie give a fuck? Far from it. Baby Young Gun makes me happy and I know that’s all that matters. I don’t feel this way about people, ever, and I never thought I would. So some times I feel uncomfortable, and I don’t know what to do with myself, but then he’ll say something like, “One two three, poof” (code for he has to fart), and I’ll snap back into just living in the moment and tell him to go for it.
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