Spring, when young men's thoughts...
Well.
Interesting little bit of gossip, which won't count as gossip since none of you know the person concerned, which also means I can speak freely.
A friend of mine from a few years back rang me last night, one of my few friends from the creationist years, and we got to talking about stuff. She teaches "difficult kids" - one on one sessions with the kids who've been expelled from every school in the Swamplands. One more than one occasion I have noted down names, suspecting I will meet them in my later work, whether the prisons, the psych ward, the ED or the drug and alcohol service, and at least once I've been right (a young man arrested and imprisoned for shooting a donkey).
Anyway, after I'd banged on about myself for a few hours, she managed to butt in.
"I've got a problem" she said. "I don't know what to do"
"My God" I said. She doesn't ask me this kind of stuff much, and earlier she'd confessed to having had one of her three times a year glasses of port. "Bad?"
"Not... bad" she said. "More ... I don't know. Confusing."
"What is it?"
"One of the ... someone has a crush on me"
"Okay. What's the problem."
"He's nineteen." Jessica is forty. Slim, intelligent, one of the most moral (in the true sense of the word) people I know.
"My God" I said. "First class."
"No, I don't know what to do. I haven't been able to tell anyone else, not even mum. He's nineteen."
"So you've told nobody?"
"Nobody."
"That's your mistake. I'd be telling everybody. I'd be writing in to the advice columns. Dear Cosmo. I am a forty year old woman with a nineteen year old who is desperately in love with me (see attached photos). I don't want any advice, I just want to gloat. Maybe you could get one of those planes that drag messages ..."
"He's serious. He's going to have an SMS bill that's out of this world. His SMS's take five messages to deliver, my phone just sits there going bip, bip, bip all the time. The last one was a minor essay on a dream he had about me, eight hundred characters or something."
"Can he spell? I mean in his texts?"
"Yeah, spells very well."
"That's okay then. Never sleep with someone who can't open their vowels."
"Well, he abbreviates.."
"Abbreviating's acceptable, it's the nature of the medium. But that whole there/their thing..."
"Anyway" she said, somewhat tersely. "What do I do? He's nineteen. He was at my fortieth!"
"Good luck to you. He's obviously got taste. Is he decent? Good looking?"
"He's gorgeous. And smart and funny."
I searched back into my memory for how I used to think. "And he's obviously there for a reason"
"I don't know. And he's crazy about me"
"That's colloquial crazy, not clinical crazy?"
She nodded (presumably). "He's a very mature nineteen year old. In a good way." I dismissed images of an elderly adolescent in pin-striped suit and geriatric stoop.
"And you're a very young forty. In a good way." Jessica got in the top thirty women in the last City to Swamplands fun run, and recently played a rhinoceros in an amateur stage show.
"Well" I said. "Anything else on the market?"
"Just this guy from church. He's born again, and he wants to be close to me, but he doesn't want committment."
"Mmmm. Amazing how God changes some people. So what's the worst that could happen? You make a young man very happy? Is that so wrong?"
"There's a lot to it. There's the whole small town thing." Morbing Vyle, where Jessica lives, is essentially a small town made not very good. The congregation is notoriously close and supportive.
Anyway, we worked out that this was one of those "good" problems, not one of those bad ones, and whatever happened it was a much needed ego boost, and I said with the amount of Good Works she did, anyone who even raised an eyebrow at what she did in her private life should be taken by she-bears (Second Kings 2:23-24).
(As can be seen in this pre-minoxidil parable from bronze age Judea. A group of children mock Elisha the prophet, and God sends two she-bears to kill forty two of them.
There are many interpretations that can be derived from this text, about not mucking with stuff you don't understand, and about treating the aged and the holy with respect... but surely one of the interpretations would have to be "don't muck with the bald guy").
But she reckoned she should go slow. And slow for a forty year old woman might be glacier-speed to a nineteen year old boy.
Maybe not. He's decent. And a very mature nineteen. And she's a very young forty. In good ways.
Anyway, she won't tell anyone, but in an oblique fashion I have, so that should enable her to gloat by proxy. Send her your well-wishes/good advice/cries of envy via this blog.
Thanks for listening,
John
Interesting little bit of gossip, which won't count as gossip since none of you know the person concerned, which also means I can speak freely.
A friend of mine from a few years back rang me last night, one of my few friends from the creationist years, and we got to talking about stuff. She teaches "difficult kids" - one on one sessions with the kids who've been expelled from every school in the Swamplands. One more than one occasion I have noted down names, suspecting I will meet them in my later work, whether the prisons, the psych ward, the ED or the drug and alcohol service, and at least once I've been right (a young man arrested and imprisoned for shooting a donkey).
Anyway, after I'd banged on about myself for a few hours, she managed to butt in.
"I've got a problem" she said. "I don't know what to do"
"My God" I said. She doesn't ask me this kind of stuff much, and earlier she'd confessed to having had one of her three times a year glasses of port. "Bad?"
"Not... bad" she said. "More ... I don't know. Confusing."
"What is it?"
"One of the ... someone has a crush on me"
"Okay. What's the problem."
"He's nineteen." Jessica is forty. Slim, intelligent, one of the most moral (in the true sense of the word) people I know.
"My God" I said. "First class."
"No, I don't know what to do. I haven't been able to tell anyone else, not even mum. He's nineteen."
"So you've told nobody?"
"Nobody."
"That's your mistake. I'd be telling everybody. I'd be writing in to the advice columns. Dear Cosmo. I am a forty year old woman with a nineteen year old who is desperately in love with me (see attached photos). I don't want any advice, I just want to gloat. Maybe you could get one of those planes that drag messages ..."
"He's serious. He's going to have an SMS bill that's out of this world. His SMS's take five messages to deliver, my phone just sits there going bip, bip, bip all the time. The last one was a minor essay on a dream he had about me, eight hundred characters or something."
"Can he spell? I mean in his texts?"
"Yeah, spells very well."
"That's okay then. Never sleep with someone who can't open their vowels."
"Well, he abbreviates.."
"Abbreviating's acceptable, it's the nature of the medium. But that whole there/their thing..."
"Anyway" she said, somewhat tersely. "What do I do? He's nineteen. He was at my fortieth!"
"Good luck to you. He's obviously got taste. Is he decent? Good looking?"
"He's gorgeous. And smart and funny."
I searched back into my memory for how I used to think. "And he's obviously there for a reason"
"I don't know. And he's crazy about me"
"That's colloquial crazy, not clinical crazy?"
She nodded (presumably). "He's a very mature nineteen year old. In a good way." I dismissed images of an elderly adolescent in pin-striped suit and geriatric stoop.
"And you're a very young forty. In a good way." Jessica got in the top thirty women in the last City to Swamplands fun run, and recently played a rhinoceros in an amateur stage show.
"Well" I said. "Anything else on the market?"
"Just this guy from church. He's born again, and he wants to be close to me, but he doesn't want committment."
"Mmmm. Amazing how God changes some people. So what's the worst that could happen? You make a young man very happy? Is that so wrong?"
"There's a lot to it. There's the whole small town thing." Morbing Vyle, where Jessica lives, is essentially a small town made not very good. The congregation is notoriously close and supportive.
Anyway, we worked out that this was one of those "good" problems, not one of those bad ones, and whatever happened it was a much needed ego boost, and I said with the amount of Good Works she did, anyone who even raised an eyebrow at what she did in her private life should be taken by she-bears (Second Kings 2:23-24).
(As can be seen in this pre-minoxidil parable from bronze age Judea. A group of children mock Elisha the prophet, and God sends two she-bears to kill forty two of them.
There are many interpretations that can be derived from this text, about not mucking with stuff you don't understand, and about treating the aged and the holy with respect... but surely one of the interpretations would have to be "don't muck with the bald guy").
But she reckoned she should go slow. And slow for a forty year old woman might be glacier-speed to a nineteen year old boy.
Maybe not. He's decent. And a very mature nineteen. And she's a very young forty. In good ways.
Anyway, she won't tell anyone, but in an oblique fashion I have, so that should enable her to gloat by proxy. Send her your well-wishes/good advice/cries of envy via this blog.
Thanks for listening,
John
posted by Bronze John at 10:12 AM
4 Comments:
That's it. No more dating guys in their forties for me. I'm shooting for a 25-year old slab of USDA beefcake. I'm not that young a 45-year old, but hey. I'm inspired.
Oh, and where are these "very mature" men you guys keep talking about? I've never met any. Of any age.
There/their is one of my hates, but the one that really gets me is the your/you're. That really itrrits me no end.
Dating younger people. I went out with an 18 year old a few years back and it was horrid. Nothing in common, not much to talk about and she played the worst music. Plus I was aware that she was only a few years older than my daughter, believe me that's not a turn on, just makes you feel like a dirty old bastard.
John! You are too damn funny. I think I've got a crush on YOU, but sadly (for you) I'm a bit past 19. As for there/their, your/you're, etc., I agree with you, it's extremely unattractive to screw up the grammar and spelling. What about silly quotation marks in unnecessary places? Is that as rampant in your neck of the world as it is in the US?
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