Um, or not...
Two of the things I've been surprised that I am enjoying as a woman no longer in her twenties are pop music and talk radio. These pleasantries are combined in my morning commute with the wonderful local morning show here in NC "Bob and the Showgram". The female DJ happens to be just shy of a month older than myself, 31, and this morning they were discussing how she feels that she "lost her mojo at the age of 31".
Now, the loose definition of "mojo" we are using here is that intangible thing that all women have at some point, that feeling of being attractive to the opposite sex. You know what I'm talking about: it's how a happily married woman gets flushed and giddy over the possible flirtatious banter of a male coworker, UPS guy, fast food employee taking your order, or in my case, the Hispanic landscaper that yells out "Si, Mami" as you are walking across the parking lot. (At my weight and breast-waist-booty ratio, the white boys barely look but I seem to be a total hottie to our more ethnic population.)
They were discussing how Kristen thought she was going to be hit on during a recent trip to New Orleans and the French Quarter, but came back feeling pretty unattractive despite the fact that she has a live-in boyfriend who adores her. They were asking callers to describe when we knew we lost our mojo.
I can actually pinpoint mine. I was 25 years old, on my way to work at 8AM, swinging by a coffee shop that I happen to love, that also happens to be adjacent to the very large University downtown. I was fixing my drink at the little counter with all the assorted spoons, napkins, straws, etc. when a fairly toned, tan, attractive male arm reached across my front side to grab a napkin. I glanced up and thought "hmmm, he's pretty good-looking" and then glanced down and realized he was wearing jeans, a tee, tennis shoes, a typical college sophomore outfit. Before my mind could even process the thought "you are way too old for him" he said, "excuse me, ma'am," and smiled. Not a sly, daring smile at all, or even a "you're hot for an older lady" smile, but the kind of smile that says, "oh, I really did just get in this old lady's space; that was rude," before carrying on with his day and forgetting that I existed.
Now, 6 years later, with a husband, a mortgage, a real job, and a beautiful child, the mojo is gone completely. As in, I don't even care anymore. I think I may have been hit on at work by a client today, but I barely noticed because all I could think was "geez, dude, hurry up so I can keep researching ride-behind bike trailers". And sitting here tonight, looking fairly bedraggled after coming home to find a sick dog (you know what that means I spent my first half hour doing, on my hands and knees with the Spot Shot), a clingy child, and getting stung by a hornet in the arch of my foot, mojo is a word that doesn't even exist in my lexicon.
I've got what I want. Right down to the toothpaste on my foot.*
*Google and the hubs both said this was the best home remedy for the sting, and they were right.
P.S. Don't walk around in your yard barefoot.