I’ve learned that telling somebody your real age is like a root canal: You shut your eyes and brace for impact. So when “Steve” asked me how old I was, I steeled myself and said, “Age is just a number.” He said, “What’s the big deal? I like older guys.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“24. You?”
“36.”
“Damn,” he said. “You’re the oldest guy I’ve ever gone out with!”
“I thought you said it wasn’t a big deal?” “Yeah, but I didn’t know you were that old.” We dropped the subject, kept going out and eventually fell for each other.
A few months later,
He waved my book at me, and said, “Tell me how old you are, and don’t lie!” Now, I know that I never revealed my age in the book, so I wasn’t going to fall for his trap. Just as I was about to insist I was telling the truth I suddenly remembered the dedication to the book:
“To Richard: For teaching me how to lie about my age.”
Busted by my own book. So, I told Steve the truth. He sank down in the chair. “You’re almost as old as my dad.” he said. I know I should have felt bad, but I didn’t. Lying about your age is simply “foreploy”—a misrepresentation for the purposes of getting laid. Yes, it’s wrong but it’s not a felony. More like jaywalking. It didn’t take long for Steve to get over my truthiness. We ended up together for years. I learned a valuable lesson about lying: It’s SO worth it.
Just don’t leave a paper trail…