My regular bartender was telling the story of a creepy customer who tried to purchase a kiss from her. I'm not sure what mental defect compels some men to try to purchase the affections of non-hookers, but he was acutely symptomatic. At first he offered her $1000. When she demurred, he chased. He doggedly offered more and more money. Supposedly he went up to $10,000. 10 grand for a kiss.
"And you said no?" I said. "At a certain point, isn't he pricing you into doing it?"
The assembled women glared at me.
"I'm not being sexist." I explained. "For 10 grand, I'd rim the guy's dog."
Everyone recoiled. Everyone except Michelle, who guffawed and slapped my back.
Michelle is a fellow barfly. We've since had several of the long, drunken conversations typical of our species. At our bar, she's often the center of attention, so I share her with the world. Charismatic, pretty, highly educated, stylish and successful, she is entirely out of my league. I treat her accordingly. I'm often the only guy in the room not hitting on her.
It helps that she's 16 years younger than me. When we began hanging out, I'd thought she was 10 years older than she was, and she'd thought me 10 years younger. On the heels of the Sarah triumph, this has rattled my confidence in my ability to estimate age.
This morning at the dog park, I fell into a conversation with a woman I estimated to be in her late-20s. At one point, she mentioned how she brings her puppy to her football games, then runs the track with him later.
"Oh, neat. Wait..." I swallowed my face. Good god, I'm talking to a high school cheerleader!
But no. She simply plays in a football league. And I officially have a complex.