A gorgeous, muscular walks in. You know the drill. You look only for a second and then attempt go to back to what you were doing, which is never as interesting as what he has  presented.

It’s worse when you are jogging and this happens in the park because jogging is the least fun thing for me and so when you see him, jogging past or on the sidelines, stretching and doing these odd exercises, you find a way, so easily, of stopping. And just standing there,wishing for a thick tree trunk or a bush so that you can savor the specimen. Too many aspects, hill and dale of muscle, the pits, the p-spots, the jawline, the sweat.

And there’s nothing wrong with the appreciation of beauty. God, if it were only that. But it’s so much more. It’s a chip on your shoulder that suddenly presents its full weight.It’s you and your reminders of where you lack on your person and how much you’ve lacked there and how It Will Never Be beause of the way you look.

So the appreciation bubbles up, the bubble bursts and you are left with the awful truths.  And by that time, he’s gone, he’s stopped stretching, started running. Or you just move on, because you have to, because staring at him is never good.

And it lingers all day, like a bad hangover (are there ever any good ones?)