Chapter 9: Only 74 Years Separate Age 25 from 99

After the fiasco with Yotam from the previous chapter, I swore I was going celibate. I imposed a digital fast upon myself. I told myself: Yael, you’re a grown woman; you don’t need apps to feel wanted. You can just go to the supermarket and wait for someone to ask for help reaching a can on the top shelf.

But then came Tuesday night. Boredom, in a lethal combination with a glass of red wine, brought me back to the scene of the crime. My finger swiped right and left automatically until it stopped on him.

"Daniel." The photos were artistically blurred, but the vibe was Justin Bieber meets a French philosopher. Then I read the technical specs.

Age Preference: 25-99.

I paused. 25 to 99? Excuse me, that’s not an age range for dating; that’s the recommendation on a Lego box. It means the guy doesn’t have a "type"—he just has a pulse. It means he’s willing to go out with someone who just finished her military service, or someone who remembers exactly where she was when the State was founded.

I kept reading. The minimum requirements: "Looking for someone sexy, who loves touch, and especially someone who looks like a beauty queen." Nu, shoyn. On a good day, after a blowout and a nap, I look—at best—like "Fan Favorite" in the 1998 local community center pageant. "Beauty Queen" isn’t exactly my title, but I spoke to my inner voice: "Yael, go with the flow. Maybe he means an inner beauty that radiates outward?"

I liked him. Three seconds later—a Match.

He didn't waste time on "What’s up?" His first message was: "Wow. You’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. When are we meeting?"

I felt flattered. Truly. For a moment, I left my intuition in the coffee corner. We set a date for the following evening at a trendy Tel Aviv cafe—the kind where you pay 30 shekels for a latte in a glass that doesn’t have a handle.

I arrived five minutes early, ordered a coffee, and prepared to meet the man of my dreams, hoping he was closer to 99 than 25, because I don't have the energy to explain to someone who George Clooney is.

And then he walked in. Or rather, he skipped. A creature stood before me. There’s no other way to describe it. He wasn't 99. I doubt he was even 29 and a half. He had skin as smooth as a baby’s bottom, teeth that were way too white, and the energy of a Golden Retriever that just discovered it has a tail. He wore a T-shirt that was way too tight in all the wrong places and wore the wide grin of someone certain they’re about to get a lollipop.

"Yael?" he asked, his voice a bit higher than I anticipated. "Daniel?" I asked back, trying not to look around for his mother to come pick him up from Judo practice.

He sat down, and while doing so, already reached out to stroke my forearm. "Wow, in reality you’re even more... ripe," he said, his eyes glistening.

"Ripe." That word echoed in the air. I felt like an avocado forgotten on the counter for two weeks that had started to turn black. I immediately understood the whole concept. The 25-99 wasn't age-related liberalism; it was a very wide fishing net designed to catch anything that moves and is willing to cooperate. He wasn't looking for a "Second Chapter"; he was looking for a tutoring session in sex ed.

All evening he talked about how much he loves "physical connection" and how he feels we’re "on the same wavelength." He leaned forward, trying to create intense eye contact (and knee contact under the table). "I feel there’s something electric between us," he whispered, his breath smelling of cappuccino cinnamon. "Do you want to come over to my place? My roommates just left for a party."

I looked at him. I really looked at him. Suddenly, the "ripeness" he spoke of looked like code for "someone who will know how to make me grilled cheese when I come home drunk." The charm evaporated in a second. Instead of a potential man, I saw a boy who simply needed someone to get his life in order.

I decided to go for the doomsday weapon: The Maternal Polish Mother, "Concerned Auntie" version.

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and gave him a tired, authoritative smile. "Daniel, sweetie," I said, my voice automatically taking on the tone of a head nurse at a public clinic. "Forget about parties right now. Look at yourself, you have dark circles under your eyes. Your body is still growing; it needs rest."

He blinked, completely confused. The spark in his eyes began to fade, replaced by the look of someone trying to figure out if he had just been scolded.

I continued in a practical tone: "Listen to me. Go home, drink a large glass of water—not Coke, water!—take out your contacts, and get into bed. Tomorrow is a new day. Believe me, you’ll wake up feeling like new."

His libido evaporated in real-time.

He didn't know how to process it. He expected a feminine rejection, maybe some games, but not public health instructions. "I... uh... okay," he stammered, shrinking into his chair.

"Great," I signaled the waitress with a decisive motion. "Check, please. The young man needs to catch a cab before he gets dehydrated." Within a minute and a half, he had vanished, leaving behind a trail of sweet cologne and an unfulfilled promise of eternal youth.

I went home. I logged into Tinder and changed my age settings to: "Only someone whose pension is more clearly on the horizon than his Bar Mitzvah. And as for the physical connection? I don’t care about six-packs. I’m looking for someone who understands that sex is nice, but seven hours of continuous sleep without getting up to use the bathroom? That is the real orgasm of life."

Next.

Chapter 9: Only 74 Years Separate Age 25 from 99