In a turn of events that my friends have proclaimed to be “inevitable”, I recently found myself on a date with a much older man. While we won’t yet dwell on the pros and cons of dating somebody who was wrapping up high school while I was still in the Teletubbies stage, I will definitely attribute this as being one of the more interesting dates I’ve had in awhile, as evidenced in the following tidbit of our conversation alone.

Over a tea at Café de la Poste (neither of us were drinking, myself for cleansing purposes, him for unknown elderly purposes), he gave me a brief autobiographical overview of the past 20+ years of his life. After an unsuccessful stint with marriage, he had gone through a series of long-term girlfriends, and was now happily célibataire (single), enjoying a fulfilling existence of creative friends, athletic endeavors, explorative travel, and a newfound interests in astrology. Hearing my age – 28 – he exclaimed, not without a dose of sarcasm: “Oh yes, that within the age that I actually have a real interest in women –  28 to 33. The 23-year-olds are starting to feel a bit immature.” If I wasn’t sure before, then it was crystal clear now – I was dealing with a real, certified Eternal Bachelor. No longer capable of containing myself, I made a backhanded comment about all-too-afmiliar with “his type”, leading to me pulling up the article for us to analyze together. The parallels being endless, we had a good laugh.

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When it comes to dating, there seem to be two conflicting theories. One claims that, in order to attain success in your love life, you must “put yourself out there” and approach dating somewhat as a part-time occupation, “keep your eyes on the prize” and pretty much Secret your way to marital bliss. The other, more fatalist one, pronounces that “the best things happen when you least expect them”, hence you should focus on yourself and forget that the opposite sex (or the same sex – to each their own) exists altogether.

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Back when I was in my early twenties and the world was still an innocent place, filled with hope and promise of potential boyfriends-to-be, it was a girl’s due diligence to pay attention to her “Number”. No, I don’t mean the numbers in one’s bank account, or even that on the scale – what I am referring to is the amount of men that one allows themselves to become intimate with. A “good girl” always kept her number around 4, while the more risqué ones edged into the “under 7” territory and usually stopped there.

Those who fell into the 1st Wedding Round and got married around 27 withdrew themselves from the Numbers game, cashing out with their husband as their final digit (at least for the foreseeable future). And then, there were the rest of us, those who did not get married and continued to date in the modern-day sh*tshow of no promises and guarantees. Their Number, previously guarded like a national treasure, continued to grow with each passing year, with even the most selective of women surpassing double-digits and stepping into the realm of what the younger them would have considered indecent and inappropriate.

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