One of the more bitter parts of getting older is women considering me harmless. "Here's my phone number!" chirp 20-somethings, and I'm forced to recall how this same woman never, ever would have given me her phone number when I was an actual prospect.
"Do you know how to text, grandpa?" I hear in my head.
The five newest contacts on my phone are four such bartenders and a waitress. This brings us back to my diversification effort. Today, I co-worked for the first time.
The space was gorgeous, something straight out of a movie. Open brick walls and exposed ducting contrasted with gleaming glass conference rooms and cubicles, and of course, an all-stainless and granite shared kitchen. When I saw the vintage Space Invaders machine, my inner 12 year old shrieked.
I sat next to a guy who looked like just Ryan Gosling if Ryan Gosling were 5'8". He was inarguably gorgeous, and he had that sparkle that reminded me of how much I hate Ryan fucking Gosling. We chatted for a bit.
"Can I just say," he smiled, "You have the nicest voice."
FAKE RYAN GOSLING THINKS I HAVE A NICE VOICE! I beamed like the easily flattered, hypocritical schoolgirl I am. We chatted some more, and he revealed he was doing some creative writing. I asked what he does for a living.
Bartender.