So I'm gonna just run with this from my perspective, which probably has no bearing on truth or reality, except that perspective defines reality from a given position.
Yesterday I went up to Fredericksburg and bought a new car. I was giggling like a little girl all afternoon, and looking for any excuse to not stay home last night. So I called my buddy Daniel, and he passed along an invitation to a 70's party. I jumped at the chance to 1) drive my new car and 2) meet new people 3) especially the, uh, female kind. Cause you know what? I'm alone. Not quite single, but not married, either (I still wear my ring, and I miss Amanda tremendously, but there's a reality to this shit, too, that exceeds the romantic).
So I got there and within minutes met a stunning young lady. We were yukking it up in no time, and before I knew what was what, I was getting an offhanded invitation to come visit her at her house at some indefinite point. To share her hookah. Word, yo! Conversation with her and Daniel ventured to relative age, and he said that I was the oldest at the party. She didn't believe me, and asked how old I am. I made her guess.
She came back with 22. Holy somethingorother! Are you serious? I'm a 33-year-old widower who's just been told I look 22 AND been invited back to her house. Good, no?
Apparently she hadn't yet seen my socks. Or my belt-clip cell-phone holder. One look near my feet and she starts laughing and pointing. I wear short socks, but I wear socks. Evidently that's not done any more, 'cause then she blurts out, "If I'd seen the socks first, I would have said 30." Thank God I left my walker and golf pants in the car.
However, the moment is salvaged by some quick mental footwork and banter.
An hour LATER, after much alcohol, chitchat, flirtation, and heart palpitations, she says, "My husband should be here soon." Come again? Your what? [sing-song] AWKWARD.
Yep. So anyway, today I went and bought new socks. Really short ones that kind of hide in the shoe. Heaven forbid I should actually look my age. (Watch, these kids probably have some litmus test whereby they examine your footwear specifically for the kind of socks I'm trying to get away with. Bastards. Get off my lawn!)