Let’s start at the beginning.

I’m 23, and the story I tell is called “The Time I Went Out with the (Relatively) Hot Older State Senator.” I deploy it as a nerdy leg-up on the social ladder among friends. Picture a couple of girls—almost-women, really—sitting on a futon, smoking weed, eating Odessa diner takeout, and giggling at everything. It goes like this:

Did I tell you about the seriously awkward time I went on a date with a State Senator? It was supposed to be a meeting, but it was not. He’s talking about his divorce and I’m just drinking wine and drinking wine. We made out in the car. Never talked again. But yeah, State Senator. 50 years old, but, like, a pretty hot 50.

I’m 27, and now the story I tell is “The Time the State Senator Tricked Me into Going on a Date.” It‘s a funny story, but I’m the butt of the joke. Picture a glass in my hand, at a table with smart friends one-upping each other. We are all very funny and very good-looking because we are in our late 20s.