When older people run into me, say, at my work or in a safe setting (such as through family members), they will swear up and down that I am "sixteen years old -- if that!" I'll try to politely correct them and move the conversation forward, but no can do. They have to ask when I will graduate high school, or when I take my driving test, or what colleges I think I will want to attend. They just keep pushing it.
When the same older men run into me on the patio at Waldo's or something, however, the entire universe shifts. They want to talk to me. I try to escape the situation but they push forward, and I eventually say something like, "Um, I'm twenty-two years old?" Like I'm not even sure what it means but it seems like something they would like to know. And every fucking time, the older guy looks awe-struck for a moment, and then says something like, "NO! You look at least thirty-four!" ...And the subject will then attempt to impress me by shoving as many drinks as he can in my direction, presumably to prove that he can order drinks just as well as any youngster these days.
There are some basic problems with this situation. I want to lay them out here, as a sort of guide to which everyone can refer from time to time. Here goes:
Problem 1.) I do not look thirty-four years old, and the whole world knows it. Saying that I do is not an ethical fix-all. You are still contemplating making sexual advances toward someone who you think may very possibly be sixteen years old. In the worst-case scenario, "BUT I TOLD HER SHE LOOKED 42!!!" will probably not hold up very well in court.
Problem 2.) If I were 34 or 42 or 57, trying to feed me your rufiecoladas would still not be a good idea. There are legal consequences to these things, and it really doesn't matter how suavely you imagine you are pushing back your snow-white bangs.
Problem 3.) Your wife is sitting next to you.
In conclusion, I don't want my own pet centarian. Feeding it bloody marys and taking it on boardwalk strolls would be too much of a responsibility at my age.
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