The breakup

It's all fun and games until you get kicked out at 3am.

He was an architect. A Harvard boy. Well, a 37-year-old boy. A funny, thoughtful, and incredibly attractive boy. We met at a gala. He was on the Board. I know, I know...

Why is he still single, you ask?! Read on.

I mean, I knew it was coming, but somehow I thought I could drag this bad boy out a little longer. I'm talking trips to Paris, Dubai, really good wine, even better conversation, and of course, late night action.

Instead, super fun dates and endless witty banter were quickly followed by a formal inquisition involving a Facebook photo review (he's 37, this is all new), some Google stalkage on his part, an analysis of past relationships, and yes, even talk of children.

Which one was your boyfriend?

How did it end?

What are you looking for?

Why don't you trust me?

It all came to a dramatic end when I snuck out of the steamy East Village dance party on Saturday night (apologies, KG) to show up on dude's doorstep circa 1am. It takes a good man to get me to the Upper East Side at any time, much less 1am.

Note to self: Red flags #823-6 -- he lives on the UES. In an immaculately designed apartment. That he bought. When he was 26.

-------

The breakup went a little something like this:

Him, sober and sick at home: Come over. I miss you.

Me, drunk and making out with unknown person on dance floor: Ummmm what time are you going to bed? (Read: MJ is playing. I need at least 30 more minutes here.)

The arrival, the activity/conversation that followed, and just when I lost my bra are all a little fuzzy. Let's just say I might have brought up his control issues. And that I didn't believe a word he said. (There's some validity here.) And reading back through drunken texts, I also told him he was old.

But then he got crazy. An argument ensued that reminded me of that time I got grounded for not cleaning my room before going to the mall.

Next thing I know, I'm being escorted out of his t-shirt, back into my clothes, out of the apartment, and into a cab. Ok, writing this all out makes me think I've got a pretty awesome Lifetime movie on my hands.

Jump to Monday at 8am, after a day of unanswered texts and a too-apologetic voicemail from yours truly.

Me 8:15am: how are you feeling?

Him 8:17am: I don't have your bra. I realized this only after pulling it out of my bag on the way to work.

Me 9:47am: and i'm guessing you also don't have the patience for me.

Him 12:17pm: This has been disappointing on both sides, I'm sure. Wait, are you talking like my dad?

Me 3:24pm: does this mean i've been added to the list of girls you'll never talk to again? On date #3, dude tells me that he has a strict rule never to talk with women he once dated. (Fine, red flag #462.)

Him: [Radio silence... and we're going on day 3]

-------

And that, boys and girls, is why you don't date incredibly handsome and successful 37-year-olds. I just lowered my dating max to 35. Despite what I've written here, I'm actually a mature lady with an old soul... and I love me some grey hair.

P.S. I'm really going to miss his doorman. He always loved me.