A friend of mine was telling me today about her son’s tennis instructor: tall, gorgeous, Latin, twenty-nine years old, with a Stanford MBA, to boot.  She joked to her husband that she would leave him in a second if the tennis pro ever came on to her, and she confided to me that she always dresses up, just a little, on tennis lesson days.  I knew, of course, exactly what she was talking about, as I’ve had quite a few crushes of my own in the last few years.  Let me say, however, that when I talk about crushes, I’m talking about exactly that: a crush.  Not marriage damaging, I- want-to-throw-you-down-and-have-wild-sex-with-you lust, but harmless fluff; the stuff that seventh grade is made of.  I know you know what I’m talking about.

What’s surprising about my crushes, at least to me, is that my bar is set pretty low.  A guy doesn’t have to be smoking hot, or, for that matter, even mildly attractive, in order to get my crush on.  He just needs to be able to make me laugh and pay some attention to me, and I’m hooked.  Like my friend, the objects of my affection are typically instructors of some kind, because the only other men in my life are the husbands of my girlfriends (too weird) and the dads from school (no thanks).  And seeing as how my childrens’ schedules are fuller than the President’s, I tend to have a lot of crushes.  There’s my son’s music teacher with the shaggy hair and the sly sense of humor.  There’s my daughter’s preschool teacher with the surfer aura and the dry sarcasm.  There’s the toddler-gym class teacher with the tattoos and the spiky, bleach-tipped hair, who likes to make silly puns all through the class.  And then, of course, there are the teachers in my own life: the spinning instructor who likes to tease the class regulars (although he’s actually really hot, and I have thought about having sex with him), and the ski instructor.  Oh, the ski instructor.  Uros, from Slovenia, who’s about six-five, with the cutest accent ever.  I wouldn’t describe him as hot, but he cracks me up, and he flirts like a champ.  I don’t even like to ski, and I’m terrible at it, but Uros keeps me coming back, year after year.  When we’re on vacation, my husband makes fun of me for blowing out my hair and putting on makeup before my ski lessons. You wear a helmet and giant goggles, he says.  But I just ignore him.  When Uros and I take a hot chocolate break and the goggles and the helmet come off, I want to look good.  I want to look damn good.

Of course, it has occurred to me that perhaps Uros flirts because it’s good for business.  Because, like me, there are other long-married moms who are dying for a man, any man, other than their husbands, to notice them –  to let them know that they’re still attractive, that they’re still intriguing, that they’ve still got it – and that they, too, will pay ridiculous sums of money to be reminded of this by Uros and his cute accent.  I know, I know, it’s so very Dirty Dancing.  Ask me if I care.

Fun & innocent -- terra described it to a "t"! And hey, if it stays that way, all it can do is help, right?!!


I find myself in the cafeteria of my 10K-person technology company acting not unlike I did in the cafeteria in college. My friends and I have made up names ("hat guy" "yummy yummy" etc.) for the hotties - and I've chosen to call a couple of them my "boyfriends." (even though I've never met them. This is different than the crushes of people we actual interact with as mentioned in this story (I've got plenty of those too!), but it's still fun... and innocent. :)


I recently went on vacation and found myself oogling men in bathing suits that are much much younger than I am. Maybe Demi Moore is on to something.