“Hey! Dudes, seriously. Take a look at those girls in that lane. They are so hot.”
I mean, sure. I guess I’ll buy that. The girls in question were, in fact, bowling in the lane next to us. “Us” represented a thrown-together conglomeration of probably a dozen medium-level acquaintances and good friends, out for a fun night of drinking and bowling. There were about as many guys as girls, although the girls were paying attention to each other, or at least pretending better. The guys were gathered around the beer, doing what guys do.
When it comes to bowling, I’m usually good for a solid 75, and occasionally if I get hot I can crack triple digits. On this day, I think I bowled a 17. Seriously, I’m just saying, bowling alley bars should be illegal. If you make us wait 45 minutes for a lane, then charge $3.50 for a pitcher, how are we expected to retain the ability to maneuver our own thoughts, let alone bowl? I drink classy beer because I am a snob, so I generally don’t expect $5 of beer to make me wasted.
So: hot girls. We (the guys) were looking over there, and, seriously, they were cute girls, don’t get me wrong, but they definitely weren’t making me put my beer down immediately so I could go figure out their respective scenes.
But I mean, I was listening empathetically while my friends slash acquaintances insightfully broke down the situation in scintillating detail.
“Seriously, dude, those girls are so hot.”
“True. Especially the brunette one.”
“I don’t think so, dude. The blond one is way hotter.”
“You guys are crazy. Those girls are, like, 17.”
Oh no he didn’t. All of the guys immediately stop talking and look over to consider the data in light of this new hypothesis.
By the way, this is pretty much the death knell in the hearts of college guys. “She is, like, 17,” is pretty much the executive branch equivalent of Congress not funding your war. Sure, you could go ahead anyway, but what the hell are you going to do? Everyone’s going to make fun of you. You’re going to have to, at least, try a different strategy.
So we instantly sprung into debate to try and settle this crucial question. Some said 17, and others said 19. The rhetoric was eloquent and the argument vigorous. Suddenly, I had a great idea, and spoke up for the first time:
“Why don’t you just ask them?”
Silence. “Uh, what? I’m not doing that.”
What? Why not? “I mean, if you want to know so badly, that’s what you ought to do. Ask them.”
“No way man.”
Well, if you want a job done right, and so forth. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”
At this point, we need to pause and deal with a matter of business that has become pressing. Here it is:
Don’t look at me that way.
I’m serious. This is legitimate. I have 25 year old friends that look 13. When I worked for restaurants, I carded 36 year old women that appeared 19. Conversely, have you seen what the kids are wearing these days? How am I supposed to know who’s what age? It’s better to know the answer than to guess.
Okay, unpause. So I walked right over to the girls, sat down, and it was much worse than I could have ever imagined in my wildest dreams.
“Hi! So, listen, my friends and I think you two are really cute, so, we were wondering: how old are you?”
The girls giggled in stereo. “How old do you think we are?”
“Uh, well, I think you’re 18, and you, well, you look 19. Yeah?”
Giggle supernova. “We’re actually 14!”