Dating Blogger Amy: Ballad of an Older Guitar Man

Below, find a play I hope women will find restore some faith in meeting normal men. 

I suppose I must introduce it by explaining the medical ailments that have recently befallen me starting with a virus/upper respiratory infection combo that left me virtually voiceless and violently coughing for two weeks.  It came with a side of redness in my eyes that didn’t go away. I finally went to the eye doctor to discover the microbes that made me hack up my insides had gone into my eyes (wtf?!).  Prescription:  Never-ending eye drops and no contacts. 

I don’t have a problem with wearing my glasses on occasion, and I certainly don’t mind wearing them for a week or so.  Though I hardly ever wear them regularly, I think they attracted someone nice and normal yesterday when I made my bimonthly attempt to shop at Trader Joe’s in Union Square.

Once or twice a month I’ll walk into TJ’s, pick up a basket, gawk at the line, replace said basket, visit the sample station, and retreat to Whole Foods down the street. On the walk from TJ’s to Whole Foods last night a man with a guitar on his back stopped me.  The following vignette ensued: 

Guitar Man:  Excuse me.

Me (turning around):

Guitar Man:  Hi, uhhh, I just saw you walk by from over there and you looked so stunning and intelligent I just had to stop you to see if you’d like to have a cup of coffee with me.

Me:  Ummmm, right now?

Guitar Man:  Uhhh, sure, yeah, right now—can you right now?

Me:  Well… actually no, now’s not the best time.  I sort of need to go home.

Guitar Man:  I’m X by the way.

Me:  Amy

(Me and Guitar Man shake hands.)

Guitar Man:  How old are you?

Me:  21

Guitar Man:  Are you an NYU student?

Me:  No, I just graduated actually.  How old are you?

Guitar Man:  34… So it’s kind of…

Me:  …Yeah, kind of a wide age gap.

Guitar Man:  Yeah, a big difference I guess. So, what are you doing now?

Me: I’m a journalist.

Guitar Man:  So, you’re looking for a job…?

Me:  No, I work at an online magazine.

Guitar Man:  Which one?

Me:  It’s called Jewcy.

Guitar Man:  It sounds like a fashion, pop-culture sort of—

Me:  Oh no, actually it’s a Jewish politics and culture magazine.

Guitar Man:  You’re Jewish?

Me:  Yup.

Guitar Man:  Really.  You have a little shiksa nose there.

Me:  Yeah.  I guess I got lucky.  So, what do you do? 

Guitar Man: I’m a writer.

Me:  You’re a writer?  Really?  What do you write?

Guitar Man:  I write fiction.  I’m a novelist.  I actually teach at NYU.

Me:  Really?  Which class?

Guitar Man:  I teach Fiction 1.

Me:  Ah.

Guitar Man:  What writers do you like?

Me:  (hesitates) Candace Bushnell… Plum Sykes… you know, chick lit.

Guitar Man:  Any Jewish writers?

Me:  Like…?

Guitar Man:  You know, there’re some great Jewish writers… Phillip Roth?

Me (shakes head.):

Guitar Man:  blah blah?

Me (shakes head.):

Guitar Man:  blah blah?

Me (shakes head.):

Guitar Man:  So you’re not interested in serious fiction.

Me:  What’s wrong with chick lit?

Guitar Man:  It’s not serious fiction.

Me:  So? It’s entertaining.  I read to be entertained.

Guitar Man:  I guess so.  (pause) So 34 is, I guess… Too big a difference, huh?

Me:  Yeah, I think it’s a pretty wide age gap.

Guitar Man:  Well, gosh, you’re stunning.  I guess you get that all the time though, right?

Me:  Well… no.

Guitar Man:  Ok.  Well I guess… (offers hand)

Me (shakes hand): It was lovely meeting you.

Me and Guitar Man walk in opposite directions on 14^th Street.

Guitar Man had many appealing attributes:  He’s a professor, a novelist, he told me I looked intelligent, and he asked me out to coffee—not even a drink, but coffee.  How refreshing to be reminded not everyone is all about getting wasted/fucked up every night like so many New Yorkers.

Furthermore, he had the audacity to approach me on the street, not whilst drinking in a bar/club.   But—and this is the best part I think—he recognized he was too old for me. I had to respect that as much as I almost didn’t want to. I know 34 is too old.  I know 36 and even 28 are probably too old, but I’ve still dated men of those ages.  And when you think about it, men that are willing and eager to date girls that much younger than them must be seriously screwed up.   

Such is New York:  most men here are that screwed up; they prey on girls in their early 20s—or late teens even—and don’t have the balls to take them out to dinner, opting to get them drunk instead.

Guitar Man proved nice, normal men, though a dying breed, are not extinct.

I think I’ll wear my glasses more often.