gig jig is up. Cute Work Guy asked how old I am. As before, I tried to avoid telling him, but he really wanted to know. Long story short, he had been told I was 3 years younger, and he’s four years younger than that, and for whatever reason, I didn’t want him to know how olllllld I really am.
Actually, I know why I didn’t want him to know. He’s cute (you probably got that from the way I call him Cute Work Guy, huh), and he’s fun and flirty, and dang it, somehow him not knowing my real age added to the fantasy. It’s like there’s who I really am, and then there’s the person I was to him. It gave me the briefest chance to reinvent myself for a while, and that was nice.
But, I confessed. Now, it’s goodbye “You’re as old as my sister,” hello, “Wow, you’re older than my SISTER!” (No, he didn’t say that last part – and if he thought it, he covered nicely.)
Ah, well. It’s probably for the best. Now I don’t have to worry about my OfficeMate spilling the beans to CWG. CWG pinky-swore to keep my true age secret. That was sweet, but now that he knows, I don’t really mind if the others do.
Maybe I’ll try embracing reality. For a little while. 😉