Before long, we had our own inside jokes, a shared eye-roll at yet another lover's quarrel in a small space. We talked about music, about high school, his experience then and mine now.
By the time you settle down together, he’ll have amassed a bunch more life experiences than you (he’s had like 20 extra years).Your life will end up being smaller in comparison since your shared years will make up far more of your total life experience than his.Try Googling images of 50-year-olds and 70-year-olds and see how many more of these lines the latter group has.They will never trust him if he’s 10-plus years your senior, no matter what he does to gain their approval along the way.If you want to wait to have a kid until you’re in your early 30s, your older man is going to be about 50.
Having to run around after a 5-year-old is hard work, especially if it’s been that much longer since your man ran around as a 5-year-old. Older people warrant more of it, so while your man’s white hair will give him all kinds of credit with the people you two encounter, you’ll automatically be dismissed as slightly inferior, regardless of your personal attributes.
(I know how that sounds: I cringe now just typing it.) But at the time, to us, it wasn't weird or taboo as much as this epic, forbidden romance. Before long we were all hanging out together, driving around in his car: T and me in the front, my friend and her boyfriend in the back.
While they made out, we made conversation, thrown together in the awkwardness of nearby coupledom.
Because of this, I was drawn to people like my best friend, who was dynamic and bold. I was causing trouble, making things difficult for everyone. " my friend whispered as we walked back to the car with the guys a few steps ahead. "Like we were supposed to be boyfriend and girlfriend, or something." "Well," she said slowly. I'd completely accepted her romance with an older guy as normal, even destined. When he wasn't upset, he was in kindness overdrive, buying me things: a gold necklace with a floating heart, stuffed animals. "." My own voice — big, firm, filling the space — was a surprise to both of us. When I turned 21, I remember making a point, regularly, to look at teens and ask myself whether I'd want to hang out with them, much less date one. As a teen wishing to be an adult, it is easy to get in over your head. That if something feels wrong, that's all the reason you need to get out of there.
She was the one who things happened to, the starting point of every story. I grew to dread the moments we were alone, especially when I needed a ride home at the end of the night to make my curfew. I'd been quiet for so long, worried about hurting his feelings and the ripple effects of whatever actions I took. You don't need to offer an explanation, even if someone asks you for one. You can't just hang out with a guy and not expect him to get ideas, I told myself. Especially for girls, who are often taught that being polite and sweet should override all other instincts. The teen years loom ahead and I've experienced too much to rest easily. Don't worry about being nice, or hurting someone's feelings: they'll get over it. You don't have to wait, I want to tell her, until you have no choice.
In tenth grade, we made friends with a group of older guys who hung out on the main street of town, which ran parallel to the local university — guys who'd once gone to our same high school and had never left the social scene. " "So, no normal 20 year old wants to hang out with someone who is 15. Stay away from him." This was the sort of thing that always led to my leaving the room in a teary huff, maintaining loudly that she Just Didn't Understand. One Saturday, the guys planned a picnic in a nearby forest park. All I had was my instinct and discomfort — a bad gut feeling. When I write novels, there is always a clear trajectory: the beginning, middle, climax, and end.