I Want My Sexy Back

Tom and I went to see the movie Les Miserables last Saturday night in Asheville, and afterward we ate Italian with our friends, Ken and Laura.  The restaurant was packed so we sat at the bar while waiting for a table.  I was sipping my water when Tom leaned over and whispered, "If I were single, and I saw you sitting here, I'd hit on you."  It took me a few seconds to absorb what I had just heard and then put it into some context that made sense.   "HEH?" I replied. My response was so loud everyone in the bar stopped and looked our way.  I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.  (It's my hearing; not so good anymore.)  At sixty-six (two and one half years short of seventy) there ain't no way I could be considered a pick-up for a sexy rendezvous.  Not possible. Nope.  Nah. Can't be.  Doesn't compute.  He repeated it again and yes my husband did say that.  Now you're probably thinking that I was thinking his comment warranted a sweet response.  Nah.  I leaned over and said, "Do I know you?"  Then I left with the twenty-seven-year-old bartender.  Hey!  It could happen. If J-lo can do it, I don't see why I can't!

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FY-EER!

Okay. I'm lying.  I left with with Tom.  Well, he had the car keys, and the bartender didn't return my winks (I find I'm invisible to younger men) so I didn't see I had many options.

The truth is I'm not sure I want my sexy back.  It did nothing but get me in trouble when I was single and hanging out at bars.  Well, I didn't Hang Out at bars,  but I did frequent them on occasion.  That is what young people did before Internet dating became an option for finding love.  I tried finding my Prince Charming in places other than bars:  car repair shops, Harley motorcycle clubs, Jiffy Lubes, Wal-Mart's gun and hunting department, Ace Hardware, construction sites, cigar shops, but to no avail.

I was looking for candlelight dinners, eye contact, hand holding, tender touches, sweet nothings whispered in my ear, walks along a sandy beach, long intimate talks, promises made.  That is what I wanted when I sat down on those barstools all those many years ago.  I was looking for love, but my sexy back betrayed my intentions and cried out,  "MY CLOCK IS RUNNING OUT, GUYS! I'M DESPERATE!"

Then one cold January day in 1980 it hit me:  Tractor Supply.  Why hadn't I thought of farmers before?  They like sexy backs, too. So I slipped into my cowgirl boots, Carhartt overalls and camouflage baseball cap and hurried down to a 160-acre farm on Morgantown Road in Greenwood.  And there he was.  My husband-to-be.  The father of my future child.  My happy-ever-after.

Oops!  It appears my pants are smokin'.  Nope, they're definitely on fy-eer.  I hate it when that happens.