Fine, fine, fine, I know that the post I put up 100 years ago about old man Lance Armstrong and the Olsen spawn was going to come back and bite me in the butt, and here you have it.
I am the biggest 31-year-old hypocrite because I am in love with all the young boys who work at the Whole Foods.
Fine, I admit it. Lance, I’m sorry (even though I still think you’re creepy). But I guess that means I’m creepy too because I am digging all the young twentysomething dudes who work at Whole Foods!
This realization struck me the other day when I was in line buying the snacks for my Oscar-watching party with Tamarie. The cashier boy ringing up my goodies had a “Poor But Weird” button on his shirt and dark, tight jeans and jet black hair and a do-me mouth.
And while I can say I wasn’t old enough to be his mother, I was definitely old enough to be, say, his aunt.
And this pains me.
As some of you are aware, back in the day, Miss Pop Rocks was pretty hip. Pretty damn hip, she’ll go so far as to say. I wore thrift store clothes and dyed my hair unnatural colors and looked really, really bored all the time in an effort to appear totally awesome. I wore Converse high tops and Bikini Kill and Julie Ruin pins on my hoodie and black nail polish and I drank my PBR and I always had that slightly greasy look hipsters tend to have.
As much as I love my life in the `burbs with Mr. PR, there’s a part of me that worries I’m getting too safe, too subdued. I buy my clothes at Ross Dress for Less. Bars and clubs are getting “too noisy” for me. (I swear to God.) And as you may know from reading this blog, I have no shame in listening to The Eagles while in my car. Unironically, I may add.
So I go to Whole Foods. I go to Whole Foods to get my vegetarian groove on, but I also go to drool over all the punk rock boys who scoop the tofu and stock the soy milk and bag the organic navel oranges from California.
And I go to reclaim a bit of my misspent youth.
Now I know there are many reasons to be glad I don’t date boys like that anymore. I remember my years dating boys who worked at natural food places and record stores and bars. They were the kind of boys who didn’t have phones or bank accounts. Who were always half an hour to an hour late to pick you up. Who didn’t call when they said they would call you. Who got drunk and passed out in your lap.
But they were hawt, I tell ya. That they were.
Sigh…don’t have much more to add to all that except to say that growing up can sure be a blessing and a curse, ya know what I mean? – Jennifer Mathieu
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