My type

So it turns out I have a type.

Despite having been with one partner in a monogamous relationship for more than half my life, I was a little taken aback to learn this. I thought by my age I was more worldly. Men in uniform. Men in suits. Men in lab coats. Nope. Turns out I have just one type.

I realize I’m a married woman, thus I shouldn’t be admiring anyone who is not my beloved spouse, the Carpenter, but hey, I’m married, not dead.

There is a very big difference between appreciating, as in “enjoying the view,” and actually chasing someone down the street to gain their affection. (For the record, I wouldn’t chase anyone, mostly because I’d blow out my knee. Also, I’m out of shape and it’s not sexy to chase someone when you’re limping and winded. Besides, I don’t want to catch anyone. I’ve already got one who won’t pick up his laundry or finish the bathroom, so I’m good, thanks.).

Here’s my theory, and it goes for both sexes, so everyone just relax: it’s okay to be married and still enjoy eye candy – in fact, it’s healthy. It’s when you shoplift the candy that things go sideways. Do not shoplift the candy. Do not unwrap the candy. Hands off the candy. It’s not complicated. A wise woman once told me, “Just because you’ve ordered, doesn’t mean you can’t read the menu.” So there.

I’ve come to terms with my middle-age status in my middle-aged body. When it comes to admiring the occasional passerby, I’m past the stage of being a cougar. I’m more of a wolverine, but not in that hot Hugh Jackman way; more like in a pudgy, unpredictably hostile way. Fair.

Slowly coming out of the hibernation of my pandemic bubble life, it’s been a long time since I even wanted to be near other people, much less check them out.

A recent trip to downtown Toronto made me feel alive, standing in the heart of the big city for the first time since pre-pandemic, enjoying my favourite spectator sport: people watching.

Everywhere I looked there were construction sites with giant cranes moving at a mesmerizing pace, and hammering noises ricocheting off the buildings. Dump trucks backing up with their beep, beep, beep warning. So much activity. That’s when I realized I had a type.

I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t ogling anyone (honest), but everywhere I looked were men in fluorescent orange shirts marked with fluorescent cross-stripe markings; hard hats decorated with stickers; filthy, loose-fitting pants (bonus points for those who used duct tape to hold them together); dark wrap-around sunglasses and work boots caked in dirt. It was a diverse group of men, speaking various languages that everyone seemed to understand, using hand gestures that were apparently allowed, and all of them working hard on one of the hottest days in July.

It was a very good day to be a spectator, appreciating the view of these essential workers.

When I got home I told the Carpenter that I have a type and he’s still it. Awkward pause.

I’m not sure if he was flattered, but I think what he meant to say was, “Thank you, wolverine.”

You’re welcome, eye candy.

WriteOut of Her Mind