“I’m Young; His Friends Hate Me”

by Vanessa Kitchen

It wasn’t easy for him either. I was young, excited to explore the city, constantly drinking too much and staying out until last call. My roommate and I would routinely go out and try and get guys to buy us drinks, a practice Michael was not entirely fond of, not to mention the fact that after six vodka shots from random guys, I was far from sober. Once after a long night out, I came home and picked a fight with him: I had caught his disapproving look when I stumbled in my three-inch heels, and I was sick of feeling like I’d come home to my mother. So I went into the living room, got a piece of pizza from the pizza box, and threw it at him. “You’re too old for me, and this is stupid,” I said, and stalked off. The pizza stains that are still on my sheets serve as a constant reminder of my stupidity that night. But Michael forgave me.

In truth, my immaturity—and insecurity about his age—drove us to the verge of breaking up too many times to count. I couldn’t relax and just accept Michael’s age for what it was, especially when we were out in public. I felt like every time we went to a fancy restaurant, the maitre d’ thought I was Michael’s daughter. We would kiss at the table, and I’d catch (or maybe it was my imagination) the waiter’s surprised look, and then I felt like he’d pegged me as some kind of gold-digger. My guy friends teased me constantly, calling him “Old Guy,” and I felt like I had to make fun of myself for dating Michael before anyone else did. I went out more to prove that I could still act 23, even if I was dating an older man. That only made things with Michael more rocky. Many times, I thought that the relationship that perhaps was never destined to succeed would finally come to an end. But he stuck with me. And when we were alone, I found myself growing more and more attached to him. Michael treated me so well and I felt like I could really be myself with him—even if that self was silly and immature. Each week got a little easier, as we tried to balance separate friends, living on separate banks of the same river, and totally separate schedules (me in graduate school, him working). It takes a 36-year-old man to have enough patience to endure 30 phone calls, eight text messages and one cryptic note on his apartment door—written in lipstick—just because he didn’t text me to say goodnight. I think any man with an ounce of sense would be long gone by now, and that showed me how much Michael did really care about me.

After we had been dating a few months, I went to meet Michael for dinner with a bunch of his friends. The guys, crowded around, busy discussing finance, barely noticed me. The girls, however, were looking me up and down pretty fiercely. Michael went to the bathroom, and immediately they started in. “How old exactly are you?” asked one of the women. “Um, 23,” I said. “Do you know how old Michael is?” she persisted. “Um, yes,” I said. “How did you even meet him?” the girl next to her asked me. “Or do you just go out at night on the prowl for rich older guys?”

I was speechless. “Um, no…” I said lamely. “Maybe you should try dating someone your own age,” the third girl cut in. I smiled weakly, and prayed that Michael would get back within the next five seconds. I was bright red and on the verge of tears. I stood up quickly and walked outside, a blast of cold air hitting my face. “What happened?” Michael asked when he came to find me. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, wiping my eyes. “The girls said that you walked off for no reason!” he said, quizzically.

So I told him what happened. “Those bitches,” he said. “They’re just mad ’cause they’re single and can’t get laid.”