Whoops!

I have a little rule that I like to live by. It's a simple one. And, up until last night, it was an easy rule to follow. It is this: There is to be no making out with anyone who was born in the 1990's. Now that it's 2011, kids born in 1990 will be frequenting the New York City bar scene. (Wow, I am getting old). Last night I was at a bar celebrating not only one, but two friends birthdays. (A camp friend and a high school friend coincidentally had their birthday party at the same bar on Saturday night). It was my very own wet dream.

As the night progressed, I was engaged in conversation with a boy. He was cute, and spoke with an English accent. (English accents always make people sound older and more sophisticated). When my English chap kissed me mid-conversation, I didn't pull away. After kissing for a few more seconds, the boy pulled away and said, with a big smile--"I love being 21 in America." (Implying that he is finally legal inside of an American bar). My heart kind of stopped, and I froze. "Wait," I said as I nervously backed away from him. "How old are you?" I asked. "I just turned twenty-one earlier this week," the boy said. Oh. The. Horror. "So, you were born in 1990," I asked hesitantly."Yes. What year were you born in?" asked my newly legal friend. "1984. I gotta go."

And with that, I turned and walked away from my baby bar boyfriend. For the remainder of the night, I asked any and all boys that I came into contact with how old they were. You never can be too careful.