Can I pass as a 22 year old?

Survey says….NO.

The truth became apparent recently. To be specific…
Date: 11/16/06
Time: 6:04 pm
Place: Hawaiian Tropics in Times Square

Small Fry started working in an area near mine a few weeks ago. Since his start date we’ve become “friends” and spend most of the day joking around over IM. I would say flirting but because he’s almost 7 years younger than me it just seems wrong. He’s a good looking kid for sure. In fact if I was in my early 50s he is EXACTLY what I would be on the hunt for to satisfy my Mrs. Robinson fantasies.

He invited me out with his friends for happy hour after work last week. I don’t think he thought I would actually say yes, but I was itching for a night of drinking and my friends had to work late so I thought, “Why not?” I now have an answer to that question.

It dawned on me shortly after I consumed my first drink that I’ve never hung out with guys that have just graduated from college, those in the 22-25 age range. When I was that age I hung out with men at least 30 and older. And the fantastic male friends I have now are my age, but I didn’t start to hang out with them until we were 26. It’s hard to believe they would ever act like Small Fry and the Fry Guys.

I hung around the bar with five 22 year olds who can’t hold their liquor and can barely afford to tip the bartender. I can’t remember the last time I had 3 shots of tequila before 6:30 pm but I’ll recall this experience if it ever happens again. By 9:00 pm all of them were stumbling, drooling, and groping the cute waitresses. Small Fry was nearly passed out on my shoulder and the other 4 were telling girls about their college fraternity days. They kept slapping each other high five and doing some other hand gesture that I assume is their gang, aka brother, sign.

I needed to be seriously drunk to hang around these kids and I didn’t feel like the straight liquor was doing the trick. I ended up babysitting, literally, Small Fry who required an escort to Penn Station. As I basically carried him there, he told me about his ex-girlfriend who he recently broke up with because she was too concerned with the “shallow things in life.” I don’t even know what that means and he couldn’t explain it, really. He kept saying, “ya know?” Since we spent the evening hitting on the young flesh in hula skirts I kind of thought discussions of “shallow” were out of place. Was he trying to prove he was mature? This cougar ain’t impressed.

In the end, I confirmed I can still drink like I’m 22, have a tolerance of an old drunk, and recover like road-kill. I walked into work the next day looking like I had been dragged behind the taxi instead of riding safely inside. Meanwhile Small Fry apparently fell asleep on the train and woke up in Rockaway Beach without his wallet but still managed to arrive to work on time looking shiny and new. Little shit.

I received emails all day rehashing the high points of the night. I am now “one of the Fry Guys.” Or their mother. I guess the best part of the evening was when a kid hit on me and I said, “call me when you get some pubes, okay?”