Flash back to the year 2010. Imagine mint green fields lined with crumbling rock walls; and as the green meets the ocean, stacked pancake cliffs separate the two dramatic landscapes. I was twenty-seven, traveling alone, and I had found myself in the very small and picturesque town of Ballycastle in Northern Ireland. My first night there I wandered into the local and only bar in town. I immediately spotted a very handsome bartender with very straight teeth (that's hard to find in Ireland). And after a couple of free beers and being completely wooed with his classic Irish accent I'm surprised I had withheld my urge to jump on top of him that first night. But after he asked me out on a date for the following evening, I was gitty like a schoolgirl and I cheerfully told my B&B host about my new date. Mark, my host, laughed at me when I told him I had a date with James the bartender. Apparently, I had just picked up an actual schoolboy, a nineteen-year-old who was studying to become a priest.
That was the first time I ever lied about my age. I'm not sure what happened, I intended to tell him my real age, but at the time, 'twenty-seven' just sounded so old, especially when I was about to go on a date with such a youngster! Somehow, 'twenty-five' just rolled off my tongue much more smoothly. Apparently saying 'nineteen' must of been as equally difficult for Irish James to spit out, and he told me he was twenty-one! I then learned that perhaps priests-to-be are allowed to lie. Nevertheless, I just couldn't corrupt such a young and holy man, so I kept it strictly a friendship relationship and I always wondered if he ever saw my actual age on my Facebook profile.
Now flash forward back to the year 2014, to this last Saturday night, and I found myself in the same predicament. I ended up in a little, yet well known establishment called the Silver Peso (and while wearing a dress, of course). Prior to this, I had a delicious dinner and then a few margaritas in Tiburon with my accomplice, Andrea. So, while sipping my vodka club at the Silver Peso, a handsome young lad with blonde hair sat down next to me. I learned that this man, Ryan, is a carpenter, he was born in Hawaii but now lives in Mill Valley, and he wants me to teach him how to rock climb. Oh yeah, and he's only twenty-three. After he and his friends were shocked to learn that Andrea is thirty-one, I chose to quickly change the subject before they asked me my own age. Come on guys, thirty and thirty-one is not old!!! Geez! But, I suppose to a twenty-three year old it's all relative. So now, Ryan actually did follow through and he asked me out! Crap, I may have to say what, like ' twenty-seven' if he inquires? Yes, I like that, 'twenty-seven' now has a nice flowing sound to it. I figure a gentlemen shouldn't ask anyway, so if he does, a white lie is indeed justified. This time around, given his pirate ship tattoos on his muscular arms and mischievous smile, I doubt he's an inexperienced man of faith. And I would definitely not be corrupting him...
I'm feeling nostalgic and I'm curious about Irish James. I wonder if he ever did become a priest? He asked me before I left, if I would ever consider converting to Catholicism. My answer was no thanks then, but I'll keep drinking Guinness in his honor. Happy St. Patricks Day y'all!
I wore a summer dress out by the water in Tiburon, but it's not even officially Spring yet! Gotta love this weather! And I didn't wear a green dress this weekend but I definitely relived some Irish memories.
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