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It wasn't until the next day that my friend revealed he was only 25. Meanwhile, I wanted to slide under the table and disappear. He obliged, and as we clinked glasses, I guessed he was in his early 30s. I've always tended to get along better with people a decade or so younger than me—peg it to my being single with no kids as well as a At the party, I flirted with the handsome man making a rum and coke in the kitchen, asking if he could whip one up for me, too. I knew that the guests at the party were going to be younger than me; I work as an occupational therapist at a hospital and most of the coworkers I'm closest with are the ones in their 20s and early 30s.
I'd gone on enough dates that didn't lead anywhere—often with much more age-appropriate matches than Mike—and I just didn't see the point in pretending we were something we weren't.
To me, it was much easier to make everything strictly between friends.
I felt like the two additional decades of hard-won life experience created a wall between me and the group—and between Mike and me. Yes, I'd heard of Drake and Snapchat, but it wasn't pop culture.
For the next six months, Mike and I were just friends.
I made sure to regularly ask about whom he was dating, because I didn't want him to think I was interested.