You’re only as old as the man you feel

Quick, grab someone young. There is a ridiculous phenomenon occurring in the city. Men are lying about their age… still!
These twanks, so named as a cross between a twink wannabe and another choice word, are growing in numbers.
I’m 34. There, I’ve said it. There’s nothing wrong with that number. My kids think I’m already Methuselah.
In gay years, I’m considered ancient, so I’ve already made peace with my age. I actually use my oldness to get out of staying out with younglings until Phoenix opens, so it does have benefits.
At a dinner party a few months back I was with someone I thought was slightly older than his proclaimed 36 years. I nearly choked on my wine when someone asked him what was he doing for his 46th birthday this year.
I poked him in the ribs and smiled through gritted teeth. “Oh, really? You told me you were 36.”  I felt like an idiot — how could I have missed a full decade?
It was like going to sleep listening to Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd and waking up to Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit.
I left that night shaking my head at him. His response was to drop our friendship, thinking I was not happy with his age. He is mistaken — it wasn’t about his true age, rather it was the omission.
The other night I entertained friends at home before we ventured out. We were watching the Celebrations DVD and Into the Groove came on. I jokingly mentioned that one of guests may not have been born when it came out in 1984. Carlos confirmed he was born in 1985 so I stared into my Corona. Then the other guys who say they are 29 but are 31, 35 but are 42 and so on. It’s funny that our age is that much of an issue. People would rather tell you their more intimate details than relinquish their grasp on their true numbers.
I asked my friend the other day how I’m going to be able to find someone if I turn 40 and I’m still single. She shook her head and said, ‘Exactly how you do now, John, just be yourself’.
Perhaps she’s right, although I’ll need to enjoy going to the Shift for the crowd as opposed to the music.
I’ll be 46 when my sons turn 18. That’s not too old, then again, they’ll be looking for the cobweb brush to clean off this Gen Xer way before that day.