This post has nothing to do with my job, except for being a significant part of the reason I’m sooo sleepy today.

Last night I went out with trivia people. I have said many critical things about trivia people, so I should clarify that the fellow who invited me in the first place is one of my all time favorite friends from high school and is funny, warm, and irreverent. He’s also terrifically tall. I like to hang out with tall people. Let’s call him Jay. I like Jay’s sisters too. Jay’s friends are largely morons, though, as previously discussed. Girls come and go from this little trivia team of his. Most of them are the short-term girlfriends of his romantically profligate roommate or Jay’s sisters. I’m more or less the only unrelated, undated girl who shows up. This causes me nearly enough trouble to overlook my enthusiasm for Jay, his sisters, trivia, and beer.

Jay’s extremely fat, and I have never once considered going out with him. In fact, he asked me out once in high school in a very cute, shy way, and I didn’t realize until college that indeed I’d been asked out by him. This is all proof I’m a terrible person. But I digress.

Last night a friend of Jay’s joined the team for the first time. I right away made fun of his facial hair. Before I knew his name, actually. It looked more like, um, highly groomed lady parts than any kind of proper beard. Terrible. Let’s call the fellow Les. It’s like a pronounced acronym, if you think about it. Les is, it turns out, a bit of a former football star at the local university but is apparently horribly, horribly backward around girls. I’d actually heard of him, and I hate football. This fact has no bearing on the rest of the story, though, or on my feelings toward him. Okay. Maybe a little bearing because I hate football.

It was a successful trivia night. Winning a round wins rounds of drinks, so I stayed in the bar for a while after the game ended while my liver did its dirty business so I could drive my ass home. Les and another couple of people hung out too, for the same reasons. But over the course of the evening he uttered the following. Please read and take notes on what not to do, fellows.

How old are you? I’m twenty eight. He’s twenty-four. I don’t mind being asked my age, but it is a little abrupt in certain circumstances. Like this one.

I would’ve thought you were, like, twenty three. I secretly believe that I look around forty, so I was immensely pleased. Bars have dim lighting. On the other hand, I was an idiot when I was twenty three. Which is the truth. Look it up.

He’s a nice enough boy. We chatted amiably about working out and how terrible our respective jobs are and our neighboring hometowns. He was obviously nervous, due to the aforementioned awkwardness.

Then, later: I like older women.

Oh. I said. I like macaroni and cheese.

Which is also the truth. Look it up.

And still later, after I weighed the comparative likelihood of a one am parking garage mugging and this guy making a pass at me as he walked me to my car: So, if you’re like so much older than me, that makes you, like, a cougar.

Immediately after saying that he leaned into kiss me and met my upraised hand instead of my lips.

What? I thought you liked me.

So here’s your free advice: don’t be like Les.

Cougar indeed.

Sniff.

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