A Younger Man

I went on a date not too long ago with a man much younger than me.

When I say younger, I mean much younger.

Seventeen years younger, if you’re wondering.

That’s a big age gap. Dang.

But my last boyfriend was in his 60s. So I figured—why not try the other direction and see what happens?

So I did.

We had a wonderful dinner. Easy conversation. Laughter. That cute, slightly awkward energy of two people meeting for the first time and quietly testing the waters to see if there might be a maybe.

I genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

He’s a highly successful medical professional who owns his own business and, just for fun, is teaching himself how to write in foreign languages. His perfectionist streak mirrored mine, and the conversation flowed easily. As the evening went on, he relaxed more and more, and by the end of dinner he was holding my hand across the table.

It was sweet.

Exciting.

Tempting.

Fun.

After we parted ways, he called to make sure I made it home safely. We ended up talking for more than an hour about all kinds of things. He was curious about how I thought the evening had gone. What I enjoyed. Whether anything had made me uncomfortable.

We just talked.

We texted for a few days after that, and then, naturally, things faded.

And that’s okay.

It was a wonderful evening with a stranger.

And he is 30.

Early on he had asked me how I felt about the age difference, and at the time I honestly didn’t know. But my lack of growing interest over time told me something.

Now I know.

Someone in their 60s is too old.

Someone who is 30 is too young.

Turns out there’s probably a sweet spot somewhere in the middle.

That said… it did feel pretty good to have a 30-year-old with a muscular body and a sexy smile tell me how hot I was.

Not that it really matters.

But hey.

I’m human.

Now I wonder what he would think of my very glamorous grandma hobby.