I’ve had those nights, and those ensuing days, where I honestly cannot recall the events in question, nor the participants…participating in said events. And I’ve had the charming experience of running into said participants from the events in question, and not remembering one iota of who the fuck they were.

I have also, I shamefully have to admit, went into Mr. Snuffalupagus land, put on my (pathetic) acting chops and PRETENDED I didn’t remember who you are. I feign confusion, puzzlement, and then – indifference.

So sorry, I intimate, my incredibly discerning brain cells obviously had other, more important matters to attend to than to possibly retain details about your meager existence. Now, good day. I said, Good Day!

Well the gods must be in a vengeful mood, or I haven’t been pouring out enough for my dead homies, because I got a taste of my own medicine the other night. And man, it don’t feel real good.

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Folks, I’m getting to an age in which the boys keep getting younger and younger and my boobs keep getting saggier and saggier. Hey, nothing a push-up bra and a few rounds of plastic surgery wouldn’t fix, but at any rate, it’s starting to feel like an issue. For me, at least. I know we’re supposed to feel empowered now with the whole Demi Moore/Stifler’s mom/cougar/puma/half-feral coon cat thing, but I just find it…embarrassing. I can’t help myself, I do the whole, oh gaaaaad I was probably your babysitter. Or I was applying for my social security card when you were learning to walk, making minimum wage at Orange Julius while you were struggling to use a sippy-cup…

I hear what you’re saying, interwebz armchair commenters: “So then don’t fucking go near them. No one’s holding a gun to your head.” I know. I KNOW! But they’re so cute, and they’re so damn…eager. They haven’t had the weight of the world placed upon their shoulders, their drinking is still years away from full-blown alcoholism, they’re not going to bitch about their ex wives or moan about being broke because of alimony or talk about the latest round of meds their doc put them on for high blood pressure or complain about their sciatica. No, these fresh-faced young pups are full of energy, optimistic, and insanely clueless. Very endearing.

The worst is when you get carded. I guess I should appreciate that I still get carded? But I think it’s more the bouncer’s way of checking exactly how vast the age difference is, like they’ve been placing bets as you’re walking up to da club. Then they smirk, maybe give me a wink, say, “have fun, mama” and Blue’s Clues happily prances inside while I’m hanging my head in shame and wondering if I should just get it over with and buy a mini-van.

Here’s another downside: they may be hot for teacher but I’m done with being Mrs. Crabapple in the bedroom. Yes, oh yes, the force of impact and the amazing ability to regenerate a stiffie in zero seconds is da bomb, but. But! I don’t want to be fucked by Energizer Bunny, poked to madness by Pinocchio or feel like I’m kissing my seventh-grade boyfriend. Seriously?!? I have to give you instruction on how to kiss properly?!?

There must be a happy middle ground. Tell me there is, people. Maybe the old soul who can rent a car with abandon and has at least started a 401(k)?