A.H.W.O.S.G. cita previa

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At the moment I'm seeing a woman who is twenty-nine. The twenty-nine-year-old, an actual woman-woman, is the managing editor at the weekly where I do some design and freelance illustrating. Though it becomes clear early on, after she wears a beret one day, of purple velour, that we're not meant to be, I continue the relationship, gloating about my ability to procure and relate to this woman-woman, seven years older. She is smart, with long blond hair and laugh lines, and is also midwestern, from Minnesota I think, and knows how to order and drink actual drinks. And she's twenty-nine. Was that mentioned, that she's twenty-nine? This I conisder fitting, fitting that I, who am bearing the weight of both Toph and the world, I who have been through so much and already feel so old, should be dating a woman seven years my senior. But of course!
Her motivations are unclear, but I have a theory: at twenty-nine, she, like most people at or near thirty, is feeling wretched, old, as if their chance has passed -and the only way to regain even a smidgen of their squandered youth would be to drink in someone like me, bursting with virility-

Get the idea? Por si preguntan, no uso boinas moradas. Punto a mi favor. Y no estoy vieja. Ni me siento vieja. El próximo año no cumplo años. En Oceanía, me han dicho, las actas de nacimiento no tienen fecha.