In the Valley of the 20 Somethings

I recently dated a younger man. A very young man. Before I met this man, I could not conceive of dating anyone younger than say, 29. Any younger than that, I reasoned, and our goals in life - the stage we found ourselves in - would be too vastly different. I want to be in a serious relationship. I tire easily and suffer from nasty hangovers. I own a condo and I have a "serious" job. I get heartburn and my debt is crushing. Did I mention that my biological clock is actually a time bomb? So, yeah, I just couldn't picture myself (my oh-so-mature self) hanging out with a younger man.

And then I met a younger man. A younger man who reads Hemingway on his lunch break. Need I say more?

The first night I went out with him, I felt like I had stepped into a Liz Phair song - the one in which she sings about dating a younger guy ("Rock Me All Night"). I met up with him and some of his friends at a bar. All of his friends have baby faces with nary a line to crease the glowing skin around their eyes. After drinks, we went back to the house that he shares with a bunch of guys and he gave me a tour. He led the way and I followed, stepping nimbly around the used and mismatched furniture, the multitude of bikes in various condition, the skateboards. He showed me the unfinished basement and the drum set. That's where we kissed for the first time - right next to the exposed brick and a drum set.

Did I have my doubts? Of course. I wondered why in the world he would want to hang out with me when he could be out flirting with firmer-bodied girls or drinking with his friends. Right away, I thought that he had too much life to live to get caught up with the likes of me.

But he was persistent and infatuated. And so I let it happen. And, as Mr. Big himself might say, it was abso-fucking-lutely fantastic. Why? Because there was always something to do, always something to talk about, always something to contemplate. He had not outgrown his hilarity or goofiness and by acting upon it on a regular basis, he gave me permission to do the same. Something wound tight inside me started to loosen when I spent time with him. I had forgotten what spontaneity was all about until he came along and reminded me how sweet it is to let the endless internal list of "shoulds" go for a while and just have fun. I found that I didn't need as much sleep as I thought I did - that I could drink more beer than I thought I could and still function the next day. It was like for a brief time, I was that age again too and life was exciting and full of the promise that adventure after adventure was coming my way. As unfocused as he might have seemed, to me, each new idea that he hatched, each new plan that he came up with was a demonstration of his potential--of his freedom. It was intoxicating.

I don't know that he felt the same way about his position in life. I do remember the anxiety that accompanies that freedom - for me it was the anxiety of making the wrong choice (that anxiety has not gone away, actually). Nevertheless, he can still join the Peace Corps if he wants to or grow his hair into an afro just for the fun of it. These are things that I cannot feasibly do in my current circumstances, and the loss of that freedom makes me a little sad.

Of course, as fast as the relationship started was just as fast as it crashed and burned. It's probably for the best, as Liz Phair says in the last line of her song: "Let me save you because life might change you, and I might change my mind." And that's the sad truth - that life will change him. It changes everybody, I think.

But in the thick of that change, you might be lucky enough to have someone come into your life who will remind you of the parts of yourself that you had forgotten - who will remind you that you still own wanderlust and creativity - that you still have the capacity for ridiculous fun and unabashed hilarity - that there still are a few adventures coming your way.

That's what I got from my 24-year old boyfriend, and I can't thank him enough.

Sex and the City

Warning: Spoiler Alert

Not too long ago, when we played "Which Character on Sex and the City are You?", I proclaimed, with pride, that I was Samantha. She was the fun-loving, sex-crazed gal who didn't want to attach herself to any one man. "That's me!" I thought, rather titillated by my own independence, free-spiritedness, and Devil-May -Care-Attitude towards my relationships with men.

I recently started watching the series over from Season 1, however, and I find that I can't relate to her at all. What was I thinking? Devil-May-Care-Attitude towards my relationship with men? Uh, that's hilarious. And this time around, the fun-loving sex-pot seems tawdry - fake even- as if she is just fooling herself because what she, like the other women on the show, really wants is that one love relationship that blows her socks off.

So, I just came back from watching the "Sex and the City" movie. Well, not just. I did stop by my dear friend's place to drink some vodka straight-up before coming home to write this blog. Carrie Bradshaw and her writing has lit the proverbial fire under my ass. I want to write - even if my writing is a cheap take-off of the show: "Sex and Denver"? "Sexless in Cowtown"? "No Sex, No Cry?"

Anyway, once again, I find myself relating to - or if not relating to, than at least respecting - Samantha. During her relatively long stint of monogamy she starts to feel like she is disappearing. She wants to look down at her finger to see the ring she bought herself - not the ring that a man bought for her. She announces that the longest relationship she has ever had is with herself and that this relationship is more important to her than any other relationship. And she leaves him.

That was my favorite part of the movie. Was it Oscar Wilde who said that the greatest romance you will ever have is the one that you have with yourself?

And I'm so annoyed that Carrie took Big back. I mean - if he really wanted to find her he could have. Email? Are you kidding?

That's all for now.