THE DATING LAME

I’m always curious as to how much information you need to share about yourself before going out with someone. When you meet someone at a bar or a party, the first introduction may not reveal all of the necessary details.

Case in point: I recently met a guy at a bar. Nice guy, smart, blah, blah blah…but I could tell right off the bat that he was really young. There was nary a line on his sweet little face. So I asked him how old he was. His response? 24 (I’m 30). He never asked me how old I was, so I didn’t offer up the info, but I did give him my card.

Fast-forward about two weeks, when the young laddie asked me out to dinner. I had some reservations about going out with him because of his age (and, because I’ve found that even older men can act like babies sometimes). Let’s put it this way: As a pop culture junkie, I typically gauge things in terms of movies and music. This kid wasn’t even born when Thriller came out—and I practically know the Thriller dance by heart. But, my friends were urging me to give him a chance, so I thought, “What the hell?”

I have to say: I felt a little bit guilty about not sharing my age with him earlier. Before the date, all I could imagine was a look of shock or disappointment on his face upon finding out my age and realizing that he was out with a CIT (cougar-in-training).

Anyway, we ended up going out to dinner, and although the subject of age never came up, it was pretty easy to tell by where I’ve lived and for how long that I’m clearly older than 24. Three years in NYC, nearly six years in SF…it’s pretty easy to do the math.

I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself anytime he would say something like, “Back in college…” like it was a really, really long time ago. And I knew that there was a disconnect when, during a conversation about Cartagena, he revealed that he’d never seen Romancing the Stone (in fact, I’m pretty sure he had no idea what I was talking about). Was it a big deal? No. But it made me feel like a granny.

The date was over pretty quickly and there was no suggestion of a drink afterwards, so I’m assuming (maybe incorrectly, who knows) that the age thing might have turned him off. Or perhaps he just didn’t like me, which is fine, too. But let’s just say when I got home, to borrow a line from Vincent Price’s Thriller rap, the midnight hour wasn’t nearly “close at hand.”

So should I have told him how old I was before the date?