Updated: July 30, 2019
Originally Published: March 6, 2015
Recently, I found myself considering the idea of attending a kegger. It was around 4 PM on a pleasant Saturday afternoon in October, and I strolled through the campus, noticing fraternity members celebrating the conclusion of Spring Fling weekend with kegs of beer prominently displayed outside their houses. I’ve always had a fondness for keg beer; it possesses a unique flavor, reminiscent of a brew that may have been hastily siphoned into the keg after being spilled on the floor.
Groups of young men were gathered, a mix of athletes, intellectuals, and party enthusiasts. There were attractive individuals in button-down shirts, alongside even more appealing ones in casual tees and unbuttoned flannel shirts—definitely my preference. So yes, I was considering stopping for a drink and whatever else might unfold after that.
However, there was a slight obstacle to overcome. It could be argued that I might be old enough to be the mother of some of these young men. While this isn’t strictly true, it’s not entirely implausible. In fact, given that I was a late bloomer, it’s even more unlikely since I was still a virgin when many of these boys were conceived. Yet, technically, I could have been a parent.
Later, when discussing this with a friend, she also got fixated on what I termed the “mother-son differential.” We briefly pondered why men don’t seem to be bothered by the same biological implications. Perhaps it’s because men don’t physically give birth to the young women who could be their daughters. Meanwhile, for women, the young men we find attractive could very well have emerged from the same place we might consider letting them return to. That realization gives us pause.
Strangely enough, that wasn’t what ultimately deterred me. At that moment, I didn’t feel like anyone’s mother; I felt an urge to share a beer with an attractive young man. (Just for context, I am indeed a mother of two, but for the sake of argument, let’s say I’ve sent them off to a farm to avoid the chaos.) The real issue was my uncertainty about whether I could convincingly blend in. I don’t exactly resemble a 19-year-old.
I won’t disclose my age as I still harbor dreams of returning to campus for a future Homecoming. Let’s just say I have noticeable eye wrinkles, dark circles that remain even after makeup, and the beginnings of forehead lines. The skin under my chin has seen better days. On the plus side, I was dressed appropriately—jeans, a trendy untucked shirt, a leather jacket, and a backpack. Thanks to Clairol, I’m free of gray hair, and my family is reputed (at least among ourselves) for looking younger than we are. Was it a toss-up? I like to think so.
For clarity, I wasn’t just wandering around campus aimlessly. I was there to participate in a panel about nonfiction writing. However, I arrived early and decided to take a walk. Feel free to judge.
Reflecting now, I think I should reconsider my idea of a “free pass”—the kind you get for celebrities. Currently, it’s Eddie Vedder or maybe Clive Owen. I flip-flop between the two. If either were to invite me to his hotel room, I might, in accordance with a previous arrangement with my spouse, accept, and my marriage would likely remain unaffected. In fact, it might even flourish. Who wouldn’t want to have been with someone who’s been with Eddie Vedder or Clive Owen? But now I’m starting to think my free pass should be a fraternity guy in a flannel shirt at 5:30 PM on Homecoming, lounging on his unmade futon with Warren Zevon playing in the background and a sweatband on the doorknob warning his roommate to stay out. Sounds reasonable, right? After all, the chances of connecting with a celeb are slim, but college students are everywhere.
So, back to my earlier point—I had an epiphany while standing on fraternity row. I began to understand why some men are drawn to significantly younger women (or vice versa). It’s not that these younger individuals make them feel youthful; they already feel young. The drive to pursue romance has been ingrained in them since they were teenagers. The desire doesn’t vanish at age 45. When confronted with a young 20-something at a bar, they likely don’t think, “I’m 45, and she’s half my age. This is awkward.” Instead, they think, “I want her.” They look at her and are transported back to high school, feeling the same intense desire and excitement. This time, however, they possess the confidence that comes with maturity, success, and perhaps a personal trainer. Their libido remains youthful, but their self-assurance is that of a seasoned adult.
In short, you are as old as you feel when you’re not actively contemplating age. When faced with youthful energy, many experience a blend of nostalgia and hope; we recall the thrilling ache of youthful desires and wish, even if absurdly, to relive or alleviate them. One of my secret pleasures is driving around my hometown with my husband while imagining he’s the high school boyfriend I never had. I also enjoy rewatching My So-Called Life and Friday Night Lights, which capture the beautiful agony of teenage desire perfectly. Their portrayal of adult yearning might resonate, but I’m too busy relating to the teenagers to notice.
Now, I’m not suggesting I’m yearning for an affair with my alma mater’s lacrosse team goalie. It was merely a thought that crossed my mind one day as I contemplated crashing a kegger.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the complexities of age and attraction while considering attending a college party. Despite feeling disconnected from youth, she contemplates the allure of younger individuals and how nostalgia influences desire. Ultimately, she recognizes that age is often an illusion, shaped by our perceptions and experiences.