Wolf Whistles? Not Here!

This post first appeared in 2008. 


I'm a firm believer in "What you see is what you get." I'm not one to apply lots of make up and spray an entire can of Aqua Net to my hair in order to achieve the perfect look or to try and impress someone. If I had nails to manicure, I probably wouldn't bother. My feeling is, if you don't like how I look au natural, that's your problem, not mine.

I don't aspire to have the perfect tan.

I don't aspire to have the perfectly made-up face, eyes, or lips.

I don't aspire to have the perfectly coiffed hair.

I don't aspire to have the perfect body.

I yam what I yam, as Popeye the Sailor used to say.

But what I yam now is someone pushing forty. And while most of us have to work with what we're given, eschewing plastic surgery and other extreme methods of changing our bodies, it also means that we might give in a little to make up, hair spray, and more flattering clothes now and then, just as a matter of maintaining self-esteem.

I'm not being vain when I say that I used to turn my share of heads when I was a teen and into my 20s. It wasn't something I consciously set out to do. I didn't wear mini skirts and walk by construction sites just to see if anybody would whistle. Most of my anonymous admirers where of the silent variety. I didn't actively encourage admiration from strangers. In fact, like many people, I always thought of my looks as flawed: I was average, nothing to really take note of, after all, no body (and nobody) is perfect. And there were plenty of other people out there who were far more attractive than I.

Still, it was flattering to an extent that other people might look at me and perhaps be appreciative or in admiration of a particularly good looking outfit, or hair style, or maybe a pleasant expression. I know those are things I can admire when I look at other people, even those I don't know.

I noticed a really strange trend though, as I entered child rearing years.

I was a mother with one, and then two, children.

I was Off Limits.

The looks I generated were from people who wondered why in the world that child wouldn't stop crying, or be quiet, or whatever other things young children do in public places that parents find trying.

In fact, I didn't generate any interest from the general public anymore. My children did. The admiration came from other parents and grandparents, who might comment on how cute or nicely dressed the children were.

In a way, it was a relief. I slid into a comfort zone of no make up and hair in a pony tail, jeans and tennis shoes. Stylish clothes? No way -- everything I had, stylish or not, was adorned with spit-up or other stains.

My kids are older now, and I'm able to get out and about from time to time without having one or both of them attached to my hip. I'm still not a fashion plate, but oh well.

Within the last few months, I've noticed a rather alarming trend.

I am generating looks and comments.

But it's not quite the same thing as when I was in my 20s.

I was purchasing some footwear at a local sporting goods store. A nice young man (give me a break. I'm pushing 40 and I can't say "some hottie", ok?) had assisted me, and then went racing up to the register to inform the clerk he would have a customer. As I trailed in his wake, I overheard this exchange:

Clerk: "Well, how will I know who it is? There are other people here."

Nice young man: "You'll know. She's just like your mom."

Pfffffffffffffffffshhhhhhh......

Did you hear that? That's the sound of deflating balloon....that balloon that used to hold the idea that one was young and attractive but now must hold the idea that one has become matronly.

And lately, as I head through the aisles of the local grocery store, I garner once-overs from older men (yes, older than someone pushing 40) who are shopping with their elderly mothers. I doubt they're thinking that I'm some sweet young thing and wouldn't they like to take me out and show me a good time. Doubtless they're thinking that if they don't see a wedding band on my finger, perhaps they could do a whirlwind courtship and then I could be the one escorting their elderly mothers down the grocery aisle.

I was pondering this as I reached the yogurt cooler. As I grabbed multiple containers of the household's favorite flavor, some of them slipped from the shelf and tumbled back into the stock boy's box. He said, "Come on lady, don't be throwin'  'em at me." Not even looking at him, as I'm attempting to help pick up the fallen containers, I quipped, "Sorry! But I suppose it's better than some middle-aged hag throwing her SELF at you."

Probably once upon a time I was perfect until I opened my mouth.

The stock boy looked at me and said, "Wal, that wouldn't be so bad."

Oh dear.

I looked at him and laughed, thinking either he's really desperate, because I think I'm old enough to be his mother, or he's just trying to make a woman who's old enough to be his mother feel good.

What the heck? I don't think I'm going to ponder that one overmuch. Perhaps he'd just been paroled and the late-night pickings at the grocery store were looking pretty good. Which is scary, considering the lighting at most grocery stores. Florescent does no one any favors.

Lately though, I tend to generate looks from men who are unshaven and look like they drink out of paper bags. I have to stop and wonder what it is about me that this kind of man, as well as the older guys shopping with their elderly mothers, and the grandfatherly men, find attractive. Do I remind them of their wives? Their granddaughters? Their parole officers? Or do they view me as a potential date?  Or is it that they find me repulsive?

To be truthful, I'm finding it all rather amusing.

I suppose by the time I'm in my 60s, and my brownish hair has more silver than it does now, and my crinkles have turned to wrinkles and my hands have developed age spots, the nice young men will be saying things like, "Can I help you with that?" And the unshaven guys will be asking me if I know where they can find the arthritis remedies. The grandfatherly men and I will be commiserating over our most recent surgeries as we wait in line to pay for our groceries.

Quit complaining, some might say. If you just put on a little make up and styled your hair and wore some decent clothes, you could look younger. Why bother, say I? I yam what I yam, after all.  And I have no desire to look like I'm 25 again.   

And that's ok. Because I'm pretty sure that the guy I married is going to think I'm still something special, if just a little more seasoned.  The rest of the general public can go look at someone else