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The bullshit factor dramatically declines as the years of their age rise. You will get thoughtful bouquets after a romantic evening.

We recently attended a wedding in Palm Springs together, a fancy affair with pool parties, fireworks, and a ceremony at the Empire Polo Club where they host the Coachella music festival.

I'm 33, Megan is 37, and the majority of the guests who were not relatives of the bride or groom fell somewhere squarely in between.

Recently recovering from a relationship with a 65-year-old celebrity plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, Megan arrived to the wedding weekend licking her wounds, only to immediately be courted by the 72-year old uncle of the groom. Uncle Jack was away somewhere in France, but the mother of the groom put the kibosh on the whole thing.

Gary was smitten over message and they met up in between Los Angeles and Palm Springs a few days later. Throughout the weekend, as I explained Megan's preferences to my college girlfriends in their early thirties, they made a face like they had swallowed sour milk and erupted in a chorus of, "That's gross," "ewwwww," and my personal favorite, "he's like my grandpa." To be fair, Uncle Jack was actually someone's grandpa.

Megan's quick-witted retort is to rattle off the names of male celebrities who are sexagenarians, septuagenarians, and even octogenarians who you would probably sleep with: Harrison Ford, 71, Clint Eastwood, 83, Jack Nicholson, 76, Robert Redford, 77.

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