d.o.m.

in the parlance of our times, d.o.m. stands for dirty old man. you know the kind that are on medicare and go after the kind of women who are still on their parents' insurance? ugh. i think i was just the victim of a d.o.w.: a dirty old womanizer... i was out and about, trying to find a place to settle down and read my book "serious play," a riveting piece on using prototypes as a means of strategy development. starbucks in barnes and nobles was packed, so i asked politely to share a table with two older gentlemen. little did i know i would spend the next hour having my hand held by one of them, literally, and end up giving him my number and email address. ugh. i'm too nice.

here's the thing. my heart goes out to older people. they tug at my heart strings. in my mind, i quietly idolize older people for the wisdom and experience, particularly people who are really really old... like, they lived in the days of fdr and wore watch fobs and stuff. i am sucker for an older person who wants to sit down and just have a conversation, because, they must have pretty amazing stories to tell. and i have it on good authority that they probably feel lonely and like no one listens to them anymore. like they've become obsolete. that's a terrible feeling. since i live in the geriatric ward of manhattan, i encounter a lot of older folk and have a lot of great conversations. and, sometimes, if they want to hold my hand, i let them because sometimes its just nice to feel that human connection. maybe i'm too nice and too naive... but i think its safe to assume that i'm not going to worry about safety around an old person.

so old people always say i'm a "dear." and that i'm "nice" and "sweet," which is really because i listen and i'm attentive and laugh at their jokes. i enjoy myself with older people right up until the point when the older person in question starts making comments like: "if you want to go to israel, stick with me, and you'll go." um. it starts to raise serious eyebrows, especially if the d.o.m. is winking at you and talking about being alone. ugh. and if he asks if you're married, the alarm bells go off and the red flags start flying. this is no longer an innocuous conversation. this has crossed the line into disgusting. suddenly i'm looking across the room at the old man with no teeth and wondering why i didn't sit next to him instead. the clincher is when you try to escape, the d.o.m. asks: "how can i connect with you? leave me the answer on a piece of paper." and you do just so you can get out there.

i feel dirty. this is why i don't leave my apartment to study anymore.