I just was hit on by a seventy-year-old woman. I made my weekly trek into Match.com to see what the web dragged in, and there it was—an email from ole puddin’ butt. Her email asked me how I feel about dogs because she has a three-legged one. Dang it. Everything was going so well between us and then she drops tripod Trixie on me. Oh, the humanity!
Once I announced on Facebook that ole cracker hips contacted me, all of my female friends (not for long, if they keep picking on me) remarked that it’s no different from me hitting on a thirty-year-old.
And, besides, ole flappy arms is technically twenty-one years older, so it would be like me hitting on a twenty-nine-year-old. I would never … goddamn it. You got me.
It’s not the same, fuckers.
I have to hand it to ole Saran Wrap skin; she definitely has a sense of humor. Her profile photo has her squatting next to her three-legged nuisance. She remarks in her profile that she’s “the one on the left” in the photo. Clever. She also calls herself “Ms. Wonderful” and expresses her desire to meet a man who will take care of manly chores. As long as those chores don’t include going down on the gray oyster soufflé, I guess that’s not asking too much.
I’m telling you: I can actually land a twenty-nine-year-old. No, not just a fat and lonely one, either. I’m cute for an old fart.
What would my first date with mate-on-a-scooter be like? Hm. I could roll her out to the sand and play beach bocce. How about a few trips down the Legoland waterslides? We could take ole stumpy mutt to the park and laugh as it tries to catch a Frisbee. Maybe it would be best if I rented a black-and-white movie and fed her pureed carrots.
This old prick can still do most of the things a spry thirty-year-old can, so it’s different. I may require the assistance of pre- and post-coital drugs, but I can hang. Really.
I’m going to respond to her email and ask her out, just to prove a point. When I walk into my usual wine bar with ole tennis-ball-footed-walker Granny, my drinking partners will dowse me with accolades for shedding my shallowness. I’ll order my usual pinot along with a Metamucil and tonic for ole liver spots. We’ll cuddle and laugh at each other’s jokes. I’ll playfully squeeze her knee (probably cause some bruising) and allow her to pat my fanny. I can’t wait to ask her if the carpet matches the curtains (which would entail cement colored floorboards painted over with an uneven shade of auburn rust).
I have a few gray pubes myself. So what? You can’t expect me to dye those. I just trim them down. Look, most women under thirty prefer screwing in the dark, anyway. Wait … or, is that what they tell me? Ugh.
I’ll keep you posted about how my courtship with ole icing-bag-boobies progresses. I’ve been advised to stop being fussy, so I’m giving her a title shot. Please try not to stare when you see the two of us embraced in PDA at the PTA meetings. It’s how we do.