20nothing.com

The number twenty is a popular one. There are often twenty reasons, twenty questions or twenty nothing. It is a solid and even number that in the age of life, explains so much. In literal age, it marks our ascent (descent?) into adulthood.

 

I have asked, and answered, almost twenty questions about my dating life since The Johnny and I broke up and I suddenly had far too much time for reflection. In fact, I’ve almost worked out answers to all of the questions. Nineteen of them, to be specific.

 

This week, The Johnny attempted a reconciliation.

“You are going to hit me,” He said.

“I haven’t yet,” I reminded him as I ran through the laundry list of reasons why I would like to staple things to his head.

“I want to be in a relationship again. With you.”

Unfortunately I had no office supplies around me. But I did have Marlboro Lights and an ego to bask in.

 

I talked about the possibility of a Round Two with The Johnny in mature and adult fashion: Which was hard considering there were, essentially, no active adults in the conversation.

“Honestly,” I said, “I am wary of you.”

 

I spent the remainder of the week contemplating diving back down the rabbit hole and devoting part of myself to someone who I frequently defend by saying, “He is only twenty.” I have caught myself making exceptions for him on numerous occasions. He is only twenty, I have rationalized, so he can’t possibly understand concepts such as maturity, commitment and shaving.

 

On Thursday, I informed my friend Aimee that I was considering sleeping with the enemy again.

“Are you a masochist?” She asked.

“No. Just stupid.”

“I have a rule of thumb,” Aimee said between gulps of champagne. “I don’t date people who were born in years I remember.”

“Aimes,” I shot back. “I don’t remember anything before ’86 and after 2001.”

 

When The Johnny and I talked again on Friday, we ended up fighting.

“I haven’t made a decision yet,” I said. And then he became angry.

“I feel like I am at your mercy Miss,” He yelled down the phone. “You’re not being honest with me. You’re acting like a year eleven chick.”

“A what? How does a ‘Year Eleven Chick’ act specifically?”

“You are drawing this out. Over dramatising.”

“No,” I corrected him. “You are the only person in my life who yells at me. Essentially treating me like a child. And so I am not sure if dating you again is a smart idea.”

We are possibly one bad date away from him yelling at me for not putting out.

 

I was bothered by his assessment that I am not being honest with him. In fact, I have never been so raw with someone, and I can’t help but think that he expects a massive skeleton to come out of my closet. Unfortunately (?) I only have shoes and discarded Marlboro Lights packets in my wardrobe. I wish there was an underlying mystery to explain my stupid choices. There isn’t.

 

Honesty is the basis of a good and healthy relationship. No matter if you are dating someone younger or older, richer or poorer (in sickness and in health), it is essential to be honest.

Hence why my pick up line is usually, “Beware.” Hey, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

 

The Johnny called me back to apologize. At the time, I was Googling pictures of Mary-Kate Olsen to copy hairstyle concepts, so it was safe to say I was not at my most intellectual. Or mature.

“I have only ever lied to you about one thing,” he said. “So I should be honest with you.”

Oh God, I thought, he is a post-op transvestite. Or really religious.

“What?” I asked.

“My age. I am really nineteen.”

 

The Johnny is literally twenty nothing.

 

Post By Salium.