25

Me: “How old are you?”

Muscles: “I’ll be 26 soon.”

“So, 25?”

“Yeah.”

I chuckle. Of course…

They always are. Or close. And for some reason every man-child in San Juan is a surfer or rides BMX or both and I don’t mind. Lines between their shoulders and their tris… Something to hold onto on their bikes from behind. Oh, you sport the brand of your tag crew? Aren’t you sweet. A tattoo of your Norwegian underground rap troop? Lovely. New ink? Show me!

 

Clearly, what I want has changed. The shift happened at thirty. Now, I wouldn’t say I am a cougar… Yet. But, I am definitely headed in that direction. For now, in the words of my friend Vince, I’m really just “a little girl in a woman’s body.” At 23, my spirit-child is closer to 25 then 33. Twenty-five year olds just seem to be the age of the men who approach me. A few years ago, I may have scoffed at a man so young, now, I appreciate him. Thoroughly.

I used to like suits. Two-piece, three, Double-Windsored and bow-tied. There was a time, in New York, when nothing seemed more attractive than a man in tailored threads. The Fashionista and The Finance guy… Equally glamorous and well-healed was I, we “worked.” Now, a Jungle Child, I prefer my boys like my dog, wild.

I hear you work in an office…at a desk…crunching numbers: yawn-fest. “You…’work’?” The word alone has become a turnoff. Don’t get me wrong, broke without goals is not a turn-on. But, when you do what you love, what you “do” isn’t “work”, and if you never make a dime but you live everyday as the best day of your life, won’t you be mine? Now, he’s young, talented and in passion’s pursuit… Chiseled and sun-kissed. My dating pool is now one-hundred times hotter than it ever was. Sometimes, I feel for my girlfriends in the dark in New York. It’s not fair. So, I share…because I care. Would you come here? Change your life… Care to stroke your fingers through long hair?

Together in Love… From my Home in San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua!

xob