The Thing About Age Difference

When I went to the club that one night in January I never imagined how much it would change my life. No matter how big a cliché it might be. I was way too drunk and a friend of mine had somehow convinced me to dance with her. But in the middle of embarrassing myself on the dancefloor, an unfamiliar girl laid a hand on my shoulder and asked about my name. I greeted her and told her. I remember her secretive smile when she whispered in my hear: "My friend over there wants to talk to you, but he is too shy to approach you." My cheeks turned pink and I felt so grateful that the dark was covering it up.

I turned around to grasp a look of the dark-haired guy sitting in the corner of the room. Even though he was surrounded by people, he was looking sort of lonely. His eyes were calming and the sly smile on his face made me aware of my own breath. So I took the stranger's hand and let her lead me to what became a life-changing encounter.

Personally, I was never the sort of girl who had a boyfriend, and when I did it had almost nothing to do with me. This time it was different. I sat side by side with a strange guy, who was insanely interested in everything I had to say. Not because he was striving after getting laid, but because my babble somehow caught his attention. I remember drowning in his arms when I was barely able to stand. To this day I still do not know if it was because I was drunk, slightly in love, or a mix of both. After four hours of talking, he asked about my age, and I told him the truth. "18," I mumbled, well aware that he was certainly not 18. He could not be older than 26 I agreed with myself, only to be unpleasantly surprised.

When he told me his age I asked for his driver's license, and sure enough, he told me the truth. He turned out to be thirty. The big three O. Maybe I should have left after that revelation, but I didn't. I couldn't. I did not want to. So we kept talking and at some point, everything went quiet around us. Not because the music stopped or that everyone had stopped laughing. I remember wanting him to kiss me. I remember him looking at my lips without making a move, not wanting to pressure me. Somehow I got the courage to kiss him, and suddenly two hours had passed, and I found myself outside without a jacket, only warmed by his embrace.

I remember his hands all over my body, and I remember mine all over his. With the purest intentions of all, he asked for permission to add me on Facebook, and offered that we shared a cab. At that point, I woke up from the fairytale and refused. I did not know him and he was a lot older than me. He respected me for that decision, I could tell. I gave him my name and number expecting him to text me in a few days or never.

So I kissed him goodbye, found my friend, and began my drunken walk home while screaming at my best friend because she ever allowed me to do something like kissing a thirty-year-old. I wasn't mad for long. Not even a few minutes went by before he begged me to text him back when I got home so he would know that I was safe.

When I woke up four hours later reaching out for my phone to check the clock, I had received yet another text from him, "Will you go out with me?" Confused I replied "When?" not expecting the answer "Tonight?" The only reason I said yes was so that I could kill the prince charming image of him in my head because no one is so considerate and selfless sober. I went on a date with a thirty-year-old, and oh was I disappointed. Somehow he was even sweeter than he had been the day before and I felt myself falling into something potentially hurtful.

The next three months went by and I had never been happier than I was with him. Only it took me a while to open up to him regarding my concerns. Did he want children? Did he want to get married? Was he truly aware that I was not even twenty yet? A simple yes or no answer would have been fine, but instead, he calmed me down and told me not to rush. So I stopped being scared. I stopped freaking out about the future, simply because he seemed so sure that it would all be okay in the end.

It is not the end, but it sure is okay. Eight months have passed and we are still together. He charmed his way into the hearts of my parents and friends, and his face still lights up when he catches a glimpse of me from the other room. Maybe I was born old or maybe he was born young, but somehow it works. I never believed that age was nothing more than a number. It sounded like a bad excuse to me. Truth is that being scared is not a good excuse. Being scared is the excuse everyone has always used, as said by John Green. I never stopped being scared, but I try.

I still try not to feel like a child when his friends are getting married, and he still tries not to feel ancient when my friends, and I for that matter, are stressed out by ordinary teenage problems. Somehow it works and that is what matters. And if it someday stops working and we have to break up, at least we would know.

I remember telling my mom about him for the first time. I remember expressing my concerns and expecting her to share them, but she just smiled at me in the way only mothers can smile to their daughters in love. "You cannot know if you never try. Maybe it will last." Eight months may not seem like a lot, but so far it has felt like a lifetime of happiness.