The Babysitter?

I met a hot young woman.

She is, well, the same age cohort as my babysitters. She is but two years older than The mohawked vegan, the Vista worker, the architecture student, and the one with the great tits who isn’t sure what her major will be. She is a Cute Young Thing.

Flattered, I am.

She tells me I am listed as “Hot mom” in her cell phone. She told her friends on the way home “She said she’s 40, but I don’t believe it”. One of my (so-called?) friends shot back “She is. Believe it. I was at her 40th birthday party”.

She texts. She calls. She lives in another state. Fortunately.

I have a dream that I am 50. “Gee, I don’t look 50” I say to myself as I look in the mirror. And I am completely puzzled as to where my 40’s may have slipped away to. I don’t seem to remember them at all.

She is adorable.

She would make a great babysitter. Oh, the fantasies!