I'm Not Gonna Lie by George Lopez Read Free Book Online Page A

box.

SPOONING WITH ROVER

WHEN you turn fifty, people assume that you can’t possibly date a younger woman. White hair, young woman? No. Doesn’t fit. People don’t get it. And they can be so rude. I have a friend, a young actress—call her Lindsey—whom I’ve been mentoring. I’ve been giving her advice, trying to guide her in business and in life. Lindsey is young, very attractive, and tiny. If you saw me walking down the street with her and you allowed your mind to go to that “is he dating her?” place, you’d think I was dating a toddler. That’s how young she looks. But most people refuse to go there. They just
assume.
    THE POSSIBILITY THAT I COULD BE ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WITH A WOMAN THAT YOUNG AND THAT ATTRACTIVE BLOWS THEIR MINDS.

    â€œOh, hello. Is this your daughter?”
    The possibility that I could be romantically involved with a woman that young and that attractive blows their minds. And they don’t even give me a chance to introduce her or engage them in conversation. I would prefer this:
    â€œOh, hello. How are you? Sharon, this is Lindsey.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Lindsey. And how do you know George?”
    That’s better than people making a huge leap. Then either Lindsey or I have the opportunity to respond appropriately: “We’ve been friends forever,” or, “We’re dating,” or, “We met five minutes ago at Cheetah’s. She gave me a lap dance.” I hate people getting up in my face and rudely asking, “Is this your daughter?”
    We’ve become a country of know-it-alls. I think it’s because of all of the information instantly available to us with the tap of a finger. If I’m sitting in a restaurant with a friend trying to enjoy a nice quiet lunch, people have no problem snapping a picture of me with their smartphones. That drives me crazy. I will never turn away a request for a picture or an autograph if somebody asks me. But people who sneak pictures of me without asking and then post them on the Internet piss me off.
    And it makes it so much harder to lie.
    â€œWhere are you, George?”
    â€œAt the car wash. Then I’m gonna go pick up the dry cleaning and maybe hit a bucket of balls—”
    â€œReally? I just saw on Twitter that you’re at Cheetah’s, sitting in the front row. ‘Hey, guess who’s in the next booth? Hashtag Georgelopez.’”
    Social media, man. Suddenly everyone’s a reporter.
    It really messes you up.
    Even if you are a gifted liar, born with a poker face, like me.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    ONCE I stopped lying, everything changed.
    Including my relationships with women.
    When I was younger, I never did well with women. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was because I used to be incredibly shy and insecure. Even so, I wasn’t terrible-looking, and I always tried to dress nice. It didn’t matter. I could not get a date. Not one. Zero. Women just didn’t find me attractive. I couldn’t get laid at a women’s prison.
    I tried. I went out with friends, went to bars, clubs, concerts. I looked for women. I was on the prowl. But nothing ever happened.
    One time, in the eighties, I went to a bar with some friends. We found a table, ordered drinks, and started pounding them back. The room got hot and smoky and I started to feel sweaty and a little buzzed. The air smelled of sex. People looking for it. People willing to give it up. The deejay cranked the music so loud you could feel the bass vibrating in your gut. My friends all got up and moved toward the dance floor. Each one found a partner and paired off. I sat alone at our table, watching everybody else, nursing a beer, feeling empty.
    I scanned the room. That was when I saw her, sitting by herself, a few tables away—a woman about my age. A vision. The kind of vision you see lurking around a corner in one of the
Alien
movies. To