I long for a wolf whistle to brighten up my day; UNPLUGGED.
WHY is it that when you hit a certain age, there's only a certain type of man who finds you attractive?
For the most part, you get to 30 and the men who used to come and chat you up in the street or in cafes or nightclubs seem to develop selective blindness when you sashay past in your kitten heels and little cleavage- enhancing cardie.
My friend Olivia and I have noticed this happening more and more often these days.
Both of us are in long-term relationships so it's not like we're desperate for the attention but the whole "you-don't-know-what-you've-got-until- it's-gone" thing is just so true.
I was a bit of a committed feminist as I hit my 20s, shooting withering glances at any man who might wolf whistle or even casually start a conversation, as if to say how dare you judge me on my looks alone, I am an intelligent woman with an opinion not just a cleavage.
Then as time goes on and you get a bit less choosy about your opinions and a bit more enthusiastic about meeting Mr Right (who just might be the bloke who wolf whistles at you from a building site) you don't get so uppity about it all.
In fact it had got to the stage where being chatted up was very flattering, especially when you were leaning over the crispy pancakes freezer compartment in the supermarket with no make-up on and streaky fake tan.
Just goes to show it's not about looks hey? Men aren't as shallow as we all thought.
Then, and this is where Olivia and I are a bit disillusioned, the attention stops. Call it engagement ring status, call it the thickening of the waist, but the only men who ever try and flirt with us as we reach the big 3- 0 are those who've already hit the 5-0. It's a devastating realisation.
For me it's also mainly coach drivers. They strike up a cheeky conversation in an "I'll-take-you-all-the-way-if-you-like-my-love..." kind of way and they always seem to want to kiss you goodbye even when you've only met them twice.
For others, the type is slightly different yet the cockiness is the same. The cleaner at my office will not leave for the day until he's got a kiss from Olivia. It's become a habit that he won't stop.
"But how did it even get that far?" I asked her incredulous. "One day I complimented him on his gleaming taps and it just went from there," she said.
Now we have noticed that whenever there's a silver-haired charmer within 100 metres they seem to make a beeline for us and corner us for half an hour telling us their life stories and where they had their operations while all the time staring at our ample size 14 cleavages.
Hmm. I think I liked it better when the attention was from muscly, weatherbeaten builders bending over scaffolding on building sites.
Not that looks matter, of course.
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|Publication:||Coventry Evening Telegraph (England)|
|Date:||Jul 31, 2004|
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