Dear Former Coworker,

You know, as much as there was to hate about my old job, I will admit that I always enjoyed the times when I got to work with/talk to you. You always seemed reasonably intelligent, good-natured, and hey, I could always count on you for an inappropriate-length hug in front of everyone along with a casual greeting of "Hey cutie/sexy" for my much-needed random ego boosts. You were fairly frequently either inviting me somewhere or making the vague "we should make plans to do something" comments, and because I am no fool, I took you up on it just often enough to keep you interested and score a free beer now and then. You took the fun out of the game by admitting at my farewell-soirée that you were glad I was leaving because you didn't wanna date a coworker, and you wanted to date me. Needless to say, I've been slightly avoiding your phone calls ever since.

Because, you see, the problem is summed up as follows: this evening you sent me a text message invite to your 40th birthday celebration. I knew you were older than me, but 40? Dear God. I try to make it a policy to not date anyone who could be my father, and considering that I very well could have been the result of your teenage fumblings in the back seat of a Chevy with your junior prom date who was drunk off a case of cheap beer acquired by your older brother, and a shoddily-worn condom that had been sitting in your wallet ever since your father had "the talk" with you back in the Carter Administration, well... you're too old for me. Not only that, but I suspect that you probably voted for Mondale in one of those Mock Student Elections; ergo, you're also too liberal for me. When you were born, it was the friggin' Summer of Love and the Beatles were releasing Sgt. Pepper, and by the time I was born, John Lennon was cold in his grave. You're closer to my mom's age than my own, and if that's not a deal-breaker, I don't know what is, but the thought of hooking up with a guy who probably asks his urologist about the difference between Viagra and Levitra comes pretty damned close.

So, unless you are actually Harrison Ford and I'm drunk as shit, you better stop trying to rob the cradle, and even Indy himself is getting pretty fucking old.

The Depends are on Aisle 4 across from the Just For Men,

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