Uber, I discovered within minutes of arriving in Pittsburgh, is the urban inebriate's best friend. No fumbling with cash, no cabbie pretending not to have change, and in a unique thrill, English.
Yesterday's English-speaking driver was the beponytailed Sarah. Lamentably it was a blond ponytail, and even more lamentably it was fake blond, although if you really think about it that just makes it a brown ponytail.
I really thought about it.
We clicked. About 10 years younger than me, Sarah has a fistful of impressive degrees and drives for Uber in between gigs child counseling, personal training, and volunteering at the Y and animal shelter. You'll note the pattern. Every corner of her life is devoted to helping others. Typical of that rare species, she's eminently likable. As we talked, I found myself skeptical. No person is this good, I thought at several points. Oh come on.
We exchanged numbers and made plans to go out.
When I got home, I googled her. Everything she'd said was true! Halleluj—crap.
She's a kid. She's a woozy-making 22 years younger than me.
"I have completely lost the ability to tell people's age," I told Amy. She asked me if I was still going out with Sarah. No. No, I just can't. I vividly remember the year Sarah was born. This weirds me out.
"Not a chance," I replied. "I'm sick that day. But I'll give you a call if I ever need a dogsitter, honey. Short of that, though..."
We chortled cynically and went about our work day. Not an hour later, I got this text.
