Fucking sexy

I'm 60 years old and the man says I'm fucking sexy. I'm so fucking sexy that it's a problem.

Obsession can run both ways.

Look, I know, you can't argue obsession with someone - we all have our attractions, desires, inescapable fixations. You can't tell someone that you aren't unbearably sexy if he finds you unbearably sexy. I tell him that no one else has ever said that before and he says that's their loss. They're blind. They don't know what they are missing.

So now I feel sexy. I went out running errands on a hot and muggy day and put my hair in 2 pony tails for comfort, as if I were a teenager again back in the early '60s, or a semi-hippie back in the '70s, except I'm 60 years old even if you'd never know it what with barely a spot of grey among the red. I went out running errands in my pony tails and my jeans and a purple t-shirt passed on by a friend that I don't wear to work because it broadcasts my nipples and I truly doubt anyone gave me a second look but I felt so sexy I was sparkling.

So who's to say? Who am I to argue with him?

Something shifted a bit yet again over the last few days, although I doubt it will really change anything. Still, despite my frustrations at being deprived of extended lessons that don't have to be crammed into my lunch hour, I am feeling much more secure and sympathetic and understanding and other things that I can't really go into here.

And sexy.

Fucking sexy.

Lucky me...