Our Little Girl Is All Grown Up

In the past, I was regularly accused of being akin almost to a paedophile, given my predilection for boyish-looking "boys".

Broom-stick legs, a chest bereft of hair and definable muscle tone for me were all signs of dating gold. If the only moustache I had to contend with was a milk moustache from their last long glass of dairy goodness, I was a happy girl. During the Age of Innocence, I thought that being a grown up involved messily drinking tequila out of a tea cup at a high tea where every other boring sod was drinking Earl Gray and commenting on the weather. Not so.

I have now progressed in life, to find myself standing amongst men. I call this the Age of the Real Man. With it comes, I can only hope, the end of my borderline criminal behaviour which as I get older becomes far more pronounced. While I may be shocked that the cute guy behind the bar only just earned the right to legally serve alcohol 2 weeks ago, no one else is.

In order to break free of the siren song that is boyish charm, I have forced myself to become involved in grown-up activities. No more attendance at drunken balls - it's all charity cocktails and art gallery openings for me now. Cricket pitches have been superseded by the fragrant mix of sweat, blood and grass found only at your local rugby union field. (I am still struggling to identify where my beloved soccer fits in all of this: I attended a match on the weekend, only to be informed I had set my sights on the only person who had to get his parents' permission to play).

Real men have chests - a la The Terminator

My entree to the Age of the Real Man has been through Rugby, a man as masculine, tall and swarthy as his nickname suggests. Not only is he a Real Man, he is a sensitive Real Man* (see Infatuation). After several weeks of dating, I still marvel at his appetite, height and jaw bone. I am thus appalled to learn he is younger than me. (Although to put things in perspective, he's been eligible to vote for 9 years).

I have since decided that future forays into the Age of the Real Man should be run with the same precision target adopted by my mother,** which involves dating men who are beyond doubt, and absolutely without question older. She married a man 15 years her senior. There was no mistaking that one.

* Note: My experience indicates the sentiment expressed by a sensitive Real Man is also the more authentic. For example:

• Rugby: "I have never been more infatuated with a woman in my life". [Uttered after long periods of silence, typical of the strong, silent type or so popular literature would have me believe].
• Boyish Boy: "You are hot". [As stares at himself in mirror for an extended period and considers consulting thesaurus at school next week to extend vocabulary]
• The Terminator (aka pin-up for Real Men everywhere): "I came across time for you". [After saving the world - also quite typical behaviour for strong, silent types]
• Boyish Boy: "What time is it? I can't read clocks yet". [Just kidding! They were never that young, I swear].

**Note: I am still a little unsure of this strategy. I am acutely aware of the fact that I need to stop staring at foetuses, but 15 years my senior seems outlandish.