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Last Edit September 1, 1998
There are those times I wish I were a thin, tall, blond under 30.
Sometimes.
Able to prance around in a slip dress with little need of support like so many cute, bold and brazen Southern belles in Little Rock.
Maybe.
But, when I was a thin, tall brunette under 30, I didn't have that much fun.
There was the trucker (18-wheeler) who drove into a pole once - I was in a mini skirt.
He wasn't going very fast - driving slow as I was walking. Good thing. You know when truckers and construction workers are watching. They have a very pronounced mating call.
I fled into the building - I was on my way to work.
And, I routinely got chased around desks, down stairways and into elevators.
They call it sexual harassment today.
Let's not forget the man who wanted to feel my ankles since he "wanted to get the same nylons for his wife".
Sure.
I kept my knees tightly locked together. Monica Lewinsky should take note. He was a supervisor, his office, closed door.
I escaped. My husband did nothing. I was defenseless.
I avoided the man.
I divorced the husband.
I wasn't chasing anything then - just trying to survive.
There is something to be said about being older.
Like having the ability to enjoy it when a tall, blond god walks into a room and leaves you breathless.
The ability to take pleasure in having your hand held by someone whose hands are warm, large, firm and gentle. Non threatening. Hell of a combination.
The ability to enjoy the rise in pulse rate, the adrenaline surge when a handsome man catches your eye. Or you catch his.
The ability to take delight in staring into eyes that take your breath away - and breath later.
The ability to have an active, healthy fantasy life to escape into whenever --- bored at work, stuck in traffic, alone at night.
The ability to create heroes in your Regency novels that are tall, broad shouldered, lean hipped --- and under your command.
I said I had a healthy fantasy life.
The ability to laugh at the brainlessness you descend into at the flash of a devastating smile on a certain someone.
The ability to control the desire to comb his long hair --- with your fingers.
The ability to know who you are and be comfortable in your own skin.
The ability to hug your children and keep the bond of love between you through all the teenage years of angst and misdirection.
The ability to take delight in your sons, in all the laughter and through all the tears.
The ability to decide who is and is not allowed to wrap you up in strong arms, crush you to his chest and the ability to relax and enjoy it.
And, without this ability, I would have missed the feel of his jacket, the strong clasp of his arms, the softness of that mouth as he kissed my cheek. Several times.
Tall, blond gods have their uses. Especially if they are friendly.
And when I was tall, thin and under 30, I never would have had the balls to march into a bachelor auction, site the target and take over the bid.
I could never have paced the side of the runway, shouted for the bid when I couldn't hear it, and upped it.
I never would have had the attention of the auctioneer, the organizer, or all the studly waiters.
I never would have heard the room noise vanish, be able to ignore the target and to focus on the action.
I never would have had the nerve.
I never would have won.
No, I am happy with who and what I am.
And I am glad I'm single.
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