Eye Candy

So I’ll share with you my latest and most secret problem. It seems to have a direct relationship to how little sleep I managed to get this weekend, what with the stomach flu sweeping through my family and all. Nevertheless, it’s a problem I’ve had before and perhaps you can relate. It has to do with men. And lust. And the fact that I’ve unfortunately hit my sexual prime at the very moment I’m wearing big jeans, getting no sleep, practicing dubious personal hygiene, and developing new wrinkles daily.


It’s the men in their 20s. They are everywhere. Is it just me or do they just keep getting cuter? I know, I know, they are probably all lousy in bed and selfish and terrible to women and never call their mothers, but, oh my. Those boys sure do wear jeans nicely.


When I spot one, it’s like someone dropping chocolate in the middle of my carrots & spinach world. I look. I sigh. I move on. And that little hit of beauty and longing makes my days so much brighter, I consider it an innocent diversion. In fact, I highly recommend it for all mothers everywhere because everyone knows that mama needs some sugar too.


I cannot stress enough that when I was in my 20s I dated these men and I’m sure I was right to chuck them for not really “knowing” or “understanding” me. Seriously, how could a woman stay with a man who refused to truly get the women’s movement? After all, how was I to know at the sweet age of 20 that I’d never again see (or feel) a flat stomach after I turned 30, except in movies?

Perhaps men in their 20s exist to help women in their 30s discover the joy of ogling. Having survived our teens and 20s being the object of desire for all men everywhere, maybe this is our chance to turn the tables. Maybe it’s our turn to be can be the admirer, the watcher, the whistler even (don’t tell). For me, men in their 20s are like the size 4 (ok fine, size 6) jeans I keep in my drawer–to look at longingly and dream of wearing–knowing that I never will.


Next time you’re driving somewhere, do me a favor. Turn down Raffi or Sesame Street, pretend you’re driving a sleek sportscar rather than your smelly kidmobile and scan the streets for a cute guy in his 20s. And once you find him, go ahead and take a nice, long, loving look. I know it will make your day just a little bit brighter. Just don’t crash the car.


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