One of the best things about my relationship with The Bestest Bestest Friend is that our taste in guys is completely opposite. To my recollection, I have only been attracted to one of her dudes –but we liked him for completely different reasons and I, to this day, still won’t admit that attraction. He was hers. Her latest dude is very metro (I like to be the pretty one in the relationship), younger (… than my brother which grosses me out) and is at her beck and call (I don’t respect guys I can control). Also, he likes to play the big man and pay for everything. Which, since I am not the one dating him, is kinda nice.

“It’s not as if he can like, buy our love.”

“… No, definitely not.”

“Well, maybe a little … but only to a certain extent.”

“Yeah, I mean it definitely helps.”

At her request, I tagged along for their third date (so I could judge and give my opinion). The bar, save for the fact that it was BENNIGAN’s, was fine and the guys seemed somewhat immature young but nice. Plus, The Bestest’s Younger Dude paid for the drinks, the shots, the food.  After the bar, when The Bestest’s Younger Dude asked if we wanted to stop by a house party, we figured it had to have cuter prospects than the bar (because zero is a pretty easy number to beat) and more booze, so we agreed to go.

And dudes there were … if we were looking for someone in the SEVENTEEN to TWENTY-TWO age-range. SEVENfuckingTEEN. And, oh God, that meant I was the middle-aged lady that everyone would talk about the next day, wondering who brought me and why didn’t I have something better to do than hang out with pre-pubescences. And what’s even worse, I really didn’t have anything better to do. I am that girl –excuse me, that lady. They should have been calling me ma’am.

The house party was someone’s PARENTS house and they were having a party because (duh) the parents were out of town. I should have taken it as an omen when the girl answered the door wearing a t-shirt from The Kid From Boston’s law school (not even kidding, wasn’t hers though, an older cousin, I think maybe?), but instead I accepted a tumbler of Grey Goose –also known as the parents’ vodka: “how much can you dilute the remaining with water before they notice?”–and a can of Diet Coke as a mixer … because “Diet Coke goes with everything, right?” Sure it does. When I was seventeen, specific mixers were irrelevant; when the gin tasted a little funky when mixed with Diet Root Beer, I figured I just needed to grow accustomed to the taste of alcohol. Bottoms up.

The Bestest and I found the older (read that: only three years our junior as opposed to PRACTICALLY TEN years) crowd and belly-upped to the table to join the card game. Presidents and Assholes. Perfect. I firmly believe that one is never too old for a drinking game. Except one of the girls had to have the rules of Presidents and Assholes EXPLAINED to her. After each round. And I realize everyone has custom rules but she needed to know the BASICS … like, card value. Apparently one can be too young for a drinking game. And I’m sorry but isn’t P&A a game that everyone just KNOWS after turning eighteen? As a rite of passage? Happy Birthday: buy a pack of cigarettes, puke from Malibu Rum, learn P&A.

My tolerance? Less than that half shot of Watermelon Pucker the girl in the corner choked on.

I am so old.

I know my boy standards have lowered, but I have not regressed to those getting obnoxious on Mike’s Hard Lemonade. At least, I hope I haven’t. Please, God, tell me I haven’t gotten there yet.

At least The Bestest’s Younger Dude knew we were judging, so he pulled out his credit card and bought us pizza on the ride home. It helped.

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