Better to be 52...

"My only regret is that I'm 52, not 25," he says. I ponder this sentiment, swirling the last bit of wine in the bottom of my glass.

"You wouldn't want that," I say. "I'm too flighty for men my age."

And it's true. I operate under the assumption that *most* 25-year-old men are looking for sex and spontaneity sans emotional attachment - just like me. It feels safer to proceed this way; to assume that most of these under 30 cowboys are looking for a one night suck n' fuck (call ya later, bye!). I'm not looking for love, and it really throws me off balance when I meet someone who tries to hand me their heart on a silver platter.

I have someone in my life who's given me his love, and this is more than enough. I'm already terrified of what I might do to hurt this person's heart. I may have the potential for more giving, but don't bother returning the favor. I can't handle any more love. It's too damn unpredictable, too heavy.

"I'm not disillusioned," he says. "I don't expect that I'd be on your radar."

My radar? I smile. Better to be 52, I think to myself. A 25-year-old might get a drink and a quickie out of me, but he'd never get this much of my attention.