They don’t whistle anymore

I have to admit it; I kind of miss the vulgar, unwanted attention of construction workers, sailors, priests, etc. Once when I was a newlywed, I had a whole shipload of seamen lining the fantail to hoot and holler at me as I waited on the dock. I dove into my car and hunkered down, embarrassed by the attention. If I only knew then what I know now.

Gone are the days of the wolf whistles, double takes, and suggestive comments. More recently, I had a guy stop me in the parking lot to tell me that he liked me because I was “thick.” I’m obviously not counting that in the “win” column.

Anymore, the general rule of thumb is that I will only attract male attention in a dark movie theater, on a moonlit night, or at the assisted living center on Pine Street. Maybe if I still shopped in the Junior Section, buying jeans that barely covered my Cesarean scar, or if I had my pre-menopausal figure back, I could attract the young studs. Probably not. It seems rather pointless to get my belly button pierced, when it is totally obscured by the high rise, matronly jeans from the ladies department. Trust me, you do not want to see my skin bubbling out through the crack between a skimpy shirt and low-cut jeans.

I know that true beauty comes from within, but the only things I have within at the moment are heartburn and hemorrhoids. That does not lend itself well to projecting an aura of sultry sexiness.

I have a friend who wears make-up and does her hair every day. She walks out of the house looking really good. When we went to a luncheon recently, I decided to wear make-up. I had to rummage through cosmetics leftover from the Pleistocene era, and did my best to remember whether to use concealer before or after my foundation. My eyelids ended up near my cheekbones, as the loose skin dragged along behind the eyeliner pencil, and I poked myself in the eye repeatedly with the mascara brush. I stepped into the parking lot to meet my friend, who took one look at me and simply said, “no.”

I like to think of the movie “Calendar Girls” when I start to believe that old age and beauty are mutually exclusive. If you haven’t seen it, the show is about a group of elderly ladies who decide to pose for a nude calendar as a fundraiser. In the end, the pictures turned out breathtakingly beautiful, and the calendars couldn’t be printed fast enough for the demand.

I’d like to think that with the right lighting, camera filters, and moderate air brushing, I could look good for a naked photo. That’s assuming that I don’t have heartburn and hemorrhoids that day.