Oh, Grow Up!

OK. So, here’s yesterday’s date. Pleasant man all in all. Quite gentlemanly. Interesting-ish.  Merely five years older than me and yet - so very, very ancient! Looks and outlook. Methuselah... only without the beard. What I'm conveniently forgetting (hehe!) - and this is because I put on 'happy' music to drive to dates, hence arrive there aged just 22 - is that women have the advantage of make-up, hair dye and 21st century corsetry.  

But anyway - why didn't I fit or gel with him? He was a proper bona fide grown-up. Am I really so juvenile? Don’t answer that!


And the minute he said something about cuddling up on the sofa with a good DVD, I was infested with scrambling ants in my pants. Stella says I've got to get over this aversion; it's not that I don't like draping myself over someone for a half hour of DVD - my kids let me do it on occasion with them - it's just not what I'd call an occupation. It's the absence of occupation, and I don't think I could do it more than once a week. So when men go on about it as if it's a life-style choice, into my head pops a vision of this happening through the upholstery with my already not unample derriere. 


Somewhere back at the beginning of these blogs, I revealed my misanthropic tendencies, and perhaps I claimed to revel in impending decrepitude. But, ya know, I was sort of lying. Because old age brings with it the inclination to denigrate anything fresh and new and to dwell on crap like ailments (remind me to never discuss my teeth ever again!), pontificate on how A levels were much tougher during Oliver Cromwell’s time, and recall the days when washing machines lasted for a full five hundred years before you had to call in an engineer. All of which, ultimately, makes you more of a drain than a radiator. 

(I think) I’m fortunate that I'm frequently in the company of young people, and frankly, on the whole, I like 'em. Even when they are bitching about something, they manage to do it with some level of humour. Ooh, hang on, corrigendum - only if they are at the end of their obnoxious teens, that is. Old people merely moan, whinge, groan and drone and make me want to insert earplugs or sign up to join this lot.  

So, when I am with old people i.e. some of my dates, there is a stifling atmosphere of...

 GREY FUG. 

I swear I sit there waiting for them to say something that's going to make my hackles stand to attention. Yesterday, for example, there was the mildest hint of racism, the merest smidge of homophobia, the teensiest tad of bigotry – all of which is usually more than enough to put me right off someone. Instantly. 


In fairness to him, these comments were not statements of opinion, just little throwaway lines that elbowed their way in among some self-deprecatory gems, but I have these well-hidden and rather annoying antennae which ping out when I’m assessing and evaluating. And while the shagability rating (in this case, erm, let’s face it, zip, nada, none) must be considered, the other criterion is 'Could I just drop this man into my life, my family, my friends?' With those views, if they are his views, I don’t think so.


Hmm. Anyway, I'm still going to go out with him a second time (probably whilst doing some kind of activity because I'm all coffeed, drinked and dinnered out)) for the following reasons:

• We had a two-way conversation.
• We covered lots of topics.
• His work and hobbies were interesting, and I learned from him. 
• As a result of his knowledge (an autodidact by the way, left school at an early age), I found some information on the internet that I'd been looking for for ages, and that's made me grateful and almost ecstatic. 
• Since he insisted he pay for dinner (I couldn't be bothered to argue and let him), I'm going to have to repay the favour somehow.    

Not sure all of that is enough. What do you think? Maybe he'll grow on me? 


A little like, erm, mould?