I’m A Creep


When did I become creepy?

Was it the time I said with a wolf-like growl that I was Team Jacob all the way and my daughter said, “Eeewww, mom, he’s my age. Maybe even younger!”

Was it this week at a Bruno Mars concert when I thought to myself that the diminutive singer looked like a pocketful of fun, and then realized I could never, ever say that aloud in the crowd of young women surrounding me?

If I met myself as a guy, I would think I was a creep. Stop looking at those young things! What’s wrong with guys your own age?

And I do love guys my age, especially – and exclusively – the one I married.

The woman in the mirror, the one with the bags under her eyes and the slightly saggy middle? She knows that the boys who say, “Yes ma’am” aren’t just being polite, they are firmly demarcating the age gap they see.

But the one who peeks out of the eyes above those dark circles? She thinks she’s still got game. Not that she wants to PLAY the game, she just wants to sit right next to the sidelines and watch. Watch the ripped young bodies.

Yep, I’m a creep.