Seasons have come and gone since I've written last. (Hello Summer, so lovely to see you again). Here is a short tale to ease myself back into the world of blogging.

On Friday night I was hanging out in a crowded bar. As I made my way through a sea of twenty-somethings, I attempted to get a drink near a group of boys who were taking shots at the bar. They were all attractive and looked to be on the younger side, maybe twenty-five or so. One of them started chatting me up, his hand kept touching my waist and the small of my back. I don't remember the beginnings of our conversation, but I do remember what stopped me in my tracks. He asked, "Where do you go to school?" I answered like I mis-heard him and said I went to The University of Rhode Island. "Ahhh, URI," he said. I haven't been asked what school I go to in a long time. Where do you go to school had been replaced long ago with, what do you do? Then my young friend asked me where I lived. I told him the neighborhood I lived in, and asked him the same. He told me he was living in the NYU dorms for the summer. And that's what this has come to. I was being hit on by a boy who was born in 1992, eight years my junior. A soon to be senior in college.  This would have been fine if this were 2005 and I was going into my senior year. But alas, I am twenty-nine. He asked for my number, I told him I was too old for him. He didn't believe me, and asked how old I was. I told him that he didn't want to know. He kept prodding until I finally said, "twenty-nine." He gasped, and I walked away.