I had dinner with an old friend last night. (I will get to how long I have known him as part of my story further on.) We had cuban, he had beers, and i had two cokes and then had to pee the rest of the night.
He is a year older than i am (34, i guess?) and is still single and i thoroughly enjoy hearing about his bachelor lifestyle. He asks if I can keep a secret, and confides in me that he is dating a 25 year old. My reply: “Well, you are pretty immature, so that seems like a good age difference.” She called during the course of dinner and he asked if I would like to go with him after our dinner to meet the new girl and a friend of hers. I agreed.
We went to some trendy, overpriced bar in Buckhead, and I ordered a glass of wine (sweet, sweet nectar of the Gods!!!) and chatted until they arrived. I also enjoyed the experience of the nine-months pregnant woman sitting at the bar. Always entertaining. . . .
The girls arrived a few minutes later, and as they approach, the friend of the girlfriend exclaims, “Oh, you ARE pregnant! Good, you can answer something for us!”
“Okay,” I say.
“How many trimesters are there in a pregnancy?”
No, I am not kidding. I keep a straight face, and say, “There are three trimesters in a pregnancy.”
“I knew it!!,” she says triumphantly to the girlfriend.
The girlfriend ponders this for a moment and then a look of realization dawns on her face. She turns to me and says:
“So, it’s kind of like ‘quarters.’
Um, yeah. Kinda.
“So, how long have y’all known each other?” she says?
I turn to him: “Well, Ev, when did you move to the old neighborhood?”
“I was like, 12, so . . . 1982?” he replies.
“Oh, My God!!! I was born in 1980!”