I've always said that I was a fourteen year old girl trapped in a woman's body, and over the past few weeks, I seem to have been on a mission to prove it to myself once and for all. At the tender age of thirty-nine and a half, you'd think I'd have put away childish things like harbouring hopeless crushes, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, dear reader, it appears I haven't and the funny thing is, whether you're a teenager, or the parent of a teenager, it feels exactly the same. Remember the butterflies in your tummy? The sweaty palms? The giddy rush when he acknowledged your presence? To say nothing of the high voltage thrill that coursed through you when he actually spoke to you! Now cast your mind back to the day you realised you were just one apple in an overcrowded tree, and that you were probably doomed to hang on for grim death by your stem while he had his pick of glossier fruit. Well, I have news for you; it's a whole lot worse when you're an over-ripe Granny Smith, and you're fruit picker is a lot closer in age to the firm young Pink Ladies hanging out on the top branches.
Think my situation couldn't possibly be any more cliched? Try this on for size: he's a musician, and I met him on Twitter. A few months ago, in an effort to try to increase my following on the site, and in doing so gain more readers, I followed the accounts of some of my favourite rock artists, the majority of whom were sixties acts. I thought that putting my personal tastes out there as bait might attract like-minded people, and late one Saturday night, I got my first nibble. He sent me a tweet that read: If you like Zappa, you'll love my music. I followed the link to his website and was indeed very impressed with his blend of psychedelic pop rock; so much so that I downloaded his album. We tweeted back and forth for a couple of months, chatting about music and movies mostly, and although I was instantly drawn to him, the fact that he was born when I was still in high school put paid to any thought I might have had about flirting...until last month, when he invited me to friend him on Facebook and started flirting with me via Facebook Chat.
Even though he was now steering our conversations, (are on line communications considered conversations?), in a 'friendlier' direction, I was reluctant at first to reciprocate. The Graduate may be an enduring classic, and one of my favourite films of all time, but the Mrs Robinson thing is generally considered a bit de-classe in real life, even in our supposedly evolved 21st century society. But when it comes to (metaphorically) charming the pants off women, no one does it like a songwriter, and he gradually wore my defences down using his honey dripping way with words. We started calling each other on Skype, and it was a blast in the beginning. His profile picture on Twitter was enough to induce heavy breathing, but seeing him in the flesh made me feel like a mere mortal hiding behind a tree, spying on a Roman god as he bathed in a river.
It was positively trippy, but as with most chemical reactions, the high didn't last. We continued chatting on Twitter and Facebook as before, and things were friendly enough, but I soon sensed his interest waining. What was to be our last Skype conversation only lasted a few minutes, and while I put this down to him being tired, international time differences being what they are, a glance at my Facebook profile the following morning showed that I was minus one friend.
Guess who?
Most rational women pushing forty would have smiled and said to themselves, "Well, that was fun while it lasted,' and moved on, but I degenerated into my dorky teenage self and started wondering what it was that I'd done to put him off. I wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, harbouring a notion that things would go any further; he lived in another country and was at that age when waking up in a bed other than his own was as serious as things were going to get for a while, but for some reason I can't explain even now, I had to know why he didn't want to be my playmate anymore, so I logged onto Twitter and asked him if I had done or said anything out of turn.
I can practically hear your collective groans as you read this, and you're right; it was an utterly pathetic thing to do, and all I can offer by way of an explanation is that after ten years of singledom, gaining the attentions of a gorgeous, intelligent, charismatic younger guy was like being on the receiving end of a shot of the most potent energy serum you can imagine, and quitting cold turkey was never going to be easy. He sent me back a message saying that there was nothing wrong, he was just really busy, which was probably true, but it wasn't long after that he also dropped off my Twitter radar and I finally had to concede that the party was over. The house lights were on, coffee was being served and it was time to go home and resume my normal life. I've been pondering things for a couple of weeks now, and I've come to a realisation. I'm entering into my fourth decade on Earth this year, and while a lot of women my age were busy ushering their kids to soccer, or dragging themselves to a four o'clock staff meeting, I was being told I was hot by a guy almost half my age, a musician no less, and this realisation has lead me to a startling conclusion about myself.
I fucking ROCK!
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