Long Live Nineteen Ninety-Eight

Nineteen Ninety-Eight.

A lot happened in nineteen ninety-eight.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets hit the big screen. Google was founded. Frank Sinatra died. Europe landed on the Euro.

Most importantly, my latest mid-life crisis was born.

My love affair with the child bride went like most – it began with a lie, was fuelled by a steady stream of whiskey, and ended with a head nod and no exchange of contact information.

What started as a casual girls night out quickly turned into me, about twelve drinks deep, taking my shirt off in a bedroom with no bedframe and strobe lights.

Exclusively.

The catalyst was a 6’1” blonde with blue eyes.

100kg. Class 1 Driver. Conditions: Q.

All things I know solely because I forced him to let me photograph his drivers permit to send to my mom incase he turned out to be a psychopath – not because we engaged in any meaningful conversation.

I made him take a photo of my permit too, because at this point I can’t rule myself out as a psychopath either.

Hashtag Equality.

In addition to his parent’s home address, from his license I learned that he was not in fact the established twenty-five year old he led me to believe he was.

Instead, he was a playful twenty-one.

In the morning, after re-assessing my math I realized that he wasn’t even twenty-one.

He was twenty.

Rewind to the moment I realized I had been blatantly lied to by a moonlit stranger who had looks that could very well allow him to become the next Ted Bundy.

As a strong, educated, and logical woman I ran over the details in my mind and brought forth my deal breaker:

“Do you actually live alone, or did you lie about that too?”

TLDR; my pants got taken off shortly thereafter.

What was most memorable about the child bride wasn’t his one-liners (though they were as bangin’ as he), but the fact that his youth allowed him to avoid all the jaded clichés that come with being older than the Gameboy Color.

He didn’t yet know how to be an asshole.

Something every other man I’ve shared a late night Uber with has mastered.

Instead, he let me sleep on his side of the bed.

The night of, he included me alongside his friends. The drive home the morning after, he asked me questions about my formative years.

He let me choose the soundtrack to our drive of shame.

It’s with ease that I say that the child bride was my favorite mid-life crisis to date.

Much more satisfactory than bangs, and much less expensive than a new car.

He was the reset button on my standards and a chapter closed with our unspoken agreement to let the night stretch no further than that.

Nineteen Ninety-Eight may have given the world the Honolulu Cookie Company and Elle Fanning, but it gave me the realization that I want someone who lets me sleep on their side of the bed.

Someone who asks me questions and lets me choose our soundtrack.

Maybe just born before Monica Lewinsky became a household name.