invisible_smoke.jpgThere’s a period of time in a woman’s life in which she’s no longer objectively hot (definition: some people, mostly those who already love you, as well as guys who sit on milk crates outside bodegas drinking 40s, still think you’re hot, but your average frat boy or wealthy capitalist in search of arm candy looks right through you) yet she is fading fast from the social landscape, at least in terms of her sexual currency.

That’s where I am. Not that I want to command the actual attention of frat boys or rich guys with leather skin and melanomas on their foreheads, but the idea that I couldn’t it if I did is occasionally unsettling.

A few years ago, a male stranger on the subway asked me for the time, and get this—he really simply wanted to know if the big hand was on the 12, not to get his hands on me! Since then, I’ve been asked for directions, whether a book was good, and for spare change, all entirely without ulterior motive.

It is actually quite pleasant to have simple, non-sexually-charged interaction with men. Definitely a relief on some level. If it stayed this way, that would be fine. But I’m wondering if soon I won’t even be asked for the time. When that happens, I’ll really know what time it is.

Image courtesy of (he has such cool stuff on there!)