I’m Back! I’m Back from the Future!
I’m so sorry. This post is technically from last March. But it’s such a strange story that I’m sharing. That, and I’m sure you’re all wondering if GoldDust and I pulled a Thelma and Louise and drove off a cliff to escape you all. We didn’t. We still exist. Believe in us.
Lately, if you’ve been keeping track, I’ve been asked out on a number of occasions. Not really, I’m completely lying. I’ve been asked out thrice, and all the occasions were by young’ns with peach fuzz and vertical driver’s licenses. I never had a vertical license. It’s bizarre, really. My quarter life crisis is that I don’t look like I’m a quarter century old.
I have issues.
All this youth in my life made me remember this tale from last year. And reminded me: I need to stop dating down. Granted, I never actually dated this guy. I hung out with him once. That doesn’t count…right?
Originally posted March 12, 2011.I texted Poof last night, probably midway through the second period of the Wings/Oilers game. I really wanted to be AT the game, but just couldn’t bring myself to dish out the required $90 that would have gotten me there. A girl has limits. Scratch that. A girl’s bank account has limits.
So, I text Poof midway through the 2nd period. The wings are down by one. We’re losing to the Oilers. That’s not right. My fingers are crossed. I believe in the Wings. But I’m in a bad mood. I need good things to happen.
L.A.: Should I go hang out with a minor?
Poof was pretty adamant on this. So I listened, for part of the night. LeBebe was occupied with showing off for BabyDaddy’s parents so I instead escaped to the wonderful world of Buffalo Wild Wings for some old friends, hockey talk, and the third period.
I arrived just in time for Lidstrom’s equalizer.
I ate some boneless wings, drank a tall beer, talked about topics involving my high school playing hockey at the Joe for the State Championship or something like that. LET’S GO COUGARS, etc, etc.
Before long, however, I found my compatriots heading out following the OT win (Datsyuk!), and leaving little L.A. with nothing to do.
I’m sorry, Poof. I saw the minor.
His house ended up being fairly close to where I was at, and being that it was only around 11, I stopped by to say hi.
Now, the minor isn’t illegal. He’s 20. He’d need me to buy him alcohol and he couldn’t come hang out with me in a bar. But it’s not illegal.
So things could be worse. We talked about high school, and about my high school being awesome in hockey. We came to the conclusion that when I was a senior, he was a lowly freshman. Weird.
Minor put on SportsCenter and we watched the highlights from the game. He put his arm around me, because in case you didn’t know, hockey is really romantic.
Seriously. You can propose to me at a hockey game. Especially if you’re Darren Helm.
In this case, however, it was kind of weird. This young boy just put his arm around me, and then his mom brought us brownies. She warned me to be careful, because they were just out of the oven, and we didn’t want anyone getting burnt.
At this point, I’ve realized. Holy Shit. I’ve time traveled back to 2005.
At this point, it’s time to run. It’s moderately early, but I’m freaking out. Isn’t this why I have friends my own age? I’m debating how to plan a smooth exit when this happens.
“You know,” Minor tells me. “I’ve got this old jersey, and it just doesn’t fit me anymore.”
“You should save it,” I tell him. “Give it to your kids someday [when you’re old enough to have sex.]”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think guys do that. I’ll probably throw it out before then.” He then gets up and leaves momentarily.
Five minutes later, he comes back and he throws a jersey at me. It’s a legit jersey, not one of the crappy fan jerseys. It even has the Konstantinov patch (see picture at top) on it. It’s definitely too small for him.
“It’s yours if you want it,” he tells me, sitting back down.
I pull out my phone and text Poof at a furious pace, which is actually about how quickly Poof’s dog can text. Poof’s dog has no thumbs.
L.A.: Can I take a hockey jersey from a random minor? Is that taking advantage?
Poof: Yes and no.
It doesn’t take more convincing. I take the jersey. I hug Minor goodbye. I leave with a Shanny jersey, my morality [mostly] intact, and a zip-lock baggy filled with Ghiradelli brownies.
I think his mom liked me.
Then, I hopped into my DeLorean and drove back to 2011.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe there is something in my DNA that attracts people far out my age range to ask me out and put me into awkward situations that I can later blog about.
Or maybe it’s because I went to a high school with a motto that pretty much designated that I’d be asked to prom at 25. The world may never know.