The other day I met a young man I hadn’t seen for a long long time. I think I used to teach him piano.
Now tall and confident, looking like he’d just been in some cool music video, he beamed at me, shaking my hand.
“Matt,” he said, “You look great.”
Now I know what you’re thinking. It was a nice thing to say. And it was, especially as it seemed so spontaneous and sincere. You don’t often hear things like that unless you’re some sort of fresh-faced starlet. Well I don’t anyway. The trouble was he didn’t stop there. He went on about how I looked healthy, didn’t have wrinkles yet, must be moisturising, had good genes, looked so young. I think he overdid it.
But my question is, what am I supposed to do? The longer he rattled on, the more he chipped away at the sincerity of it. There comes a point, my polite young friend, when you really must stop. Even if you’re genuinely overawed by the unbelievable youthfulness emanating from the miraculously ageing Adonis before you, you’ve really got to know when pointing it out gets sarcastic.
I bumbled my way through the awkwardness. You see now, confident people? You see how hard it is! I left believing I’m shockingly ancient and this young model of a man in his prime had covered up his shock with OTT quick-thinking obsequious flattery, thinking that a bucketload of sugar might just improve the taste of the old wine skin.
Well, I thanked him and moved on. What else could be done? Hit the town? Slick my hair back and buy a cool motorbike? No. I just take it with a pinch of salt and hope that at least a little bit of it was actually genuine.
And then not give two hoots if it wasn’t.
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