I’m charming. That’s not me talking, it’s just the feedback I’ve gotten from satisfied customers. Before you start to think I’m a male prostitute, the satisfied customers I’m referring to are various parents and grandparents. Before you start to think I have an old people fetish, the satisfaction I’m referring to is nothing but charm.

I don’t really know what charm is. I don’t try to have it and I don’t know how I have it, but damn it do I have it! For years I’ve been charming the pants off the friends of parents, the parents of friends, the friends of grandparents, and the grandparents of friends. They love me. Have I met your mother? She probably loves me. Have I met your grandmother? She probably wants me to marry you…only if you have girl parts, of course.

Today I saw into the sneaky matchmaking world of the elderly and realized how appealing I am as a potential mate for granddaughters everywhere after I accompanied Grammy to her company/friends’ Christmas party. Going in, I knew I was golden if I met any pretty girl remotely near my age. How could you not sleep with a man who gives up his Sunday (when the Patriots are playing, nonetheless) to escort his aging and sickly grandmother to a party in Lincoln, Massachusetts? I’d have that girl in the coat closet in less than 15 seconds.

My night went another way, though. There was no coat closet rendezvous. Instead, I met almost nothing but grandmothers. Apparently Grammy doesn’t roll with a young crowd of twenty year-old hotties. Still, the possibility for something in the future was there. Every nice old lady I met had basically the same thing to say: “Oh, you know what? He should meet my Marie.” In grandparent language, that means “my granddaughter Marie.” I guess grandparents consider we, the grandchildren, their possessions. I’ll allow it, since the only other thing they really have is Medicare.

Every other grandmother was basically more of the same. “Too bad my Deanna isn’t here!” “Would my Tara love to meet you!” “My Jenny would absolutely jump your bones.”

Okay…that last one is a bit of an exaggeration, but the point is clear: Grandmothers love a charming, tall, and handsome young man who looks phenomenal in a sweater. You can’t call me conceited for saying that, either. All the data is right in front of you. It’s science, and you can’t argue with science.

(Speaking of science, the token staunch Republican at the party had the line of the night when someone mentioned all the new jobs being created by Green technology: “I’m burning CO2 until the day I die!” he declared emphatically. Good for him.)

In the end, I wasn’t able to milk the kind deed I performed for Grammy to get some “You’re such a great grandson” nookie from an attractive young lass. I did, however, plant seeds with some smitten old women who may or may not offer me a sweet dowry someday to wed their granddaughters. While they might not physically live up to the Kiel Servideo Gold Standard of Beauty, I may have to seriously consider the offer from a financial standpoint.

After all, before I left, one of the women said to me, “Dont worry about getting a job. We’re all rich. We’ll take care of you.”

See guys, I told you I’d make it through the rough patch somehow.