Today on the train, I sat behind two mid-teenaged boys. For much of the trip, I could only see baseball caps and hear back-and-forth mumbles that averaged two words per utterance. Then one youth stood up to wrestle something out of his deep-pocketed jeans, and a cursory glance turned into a pensive gaze.
15 years ago, his cuteness would have unleashed a dizzying surge of boy-crazy hormones. His abundant mess of curly, shoulder-length hair would be enough to drive me wild, let alone his big brown eyes, strong youthful jaw, and a killer cleft in his hairless chin. The 15-year old Meredith would be beside herself.
Age does strange things to a woman, like make it impossible to feel even a twinge of physical attraction for any man who doesn’t have a college degree. I speculate that this does not happen to men, that comely teenaged girls are a constant captivation throughout their lives. But it’s a relief not to be beholden to the charms of teenaged boys, because then I’d have to compete with teenaged girls. And I couldn’t do that even when I was a teenaged girl.
