As I strolled through the heart of campus on a balmy Saturday afternoon in late October, the thought of crashing a kegger crossed my mind. Fraternity brothers were celebrating the end of a weekend with kegs of beer stationed outside their houses. I’ve always had a soft spot for keg beer; there’s something about its taste that hints it might have been poured straight from the floor.
Clusters of guys were scattered about—athletes, nerds, and party enthusiasts alike. Good-looking fellows in button-ups mingled with even more appealing ones in distressed tees and flannel shirts, which I find particularly attractive. So yes, the idea of grabbing a cold one with a handsome guy was tempting, along with whatever else might unfold.
However, a small obstacle loomed: in theory, I could be old enough to be one of these boys’ mothers. I’m not, of course, but the thought lingered. I was a late bloomer, still a virgin when many of these boys were conceived. Yet, technically, I could have been a mother by now.
When I shared this thought with a friend, we both got stuck on what I like to call the “mother-son differential.” We pondered why men often pursue women much younger than themselves, seemingly unfazed by the biological implications. Perhaps it’s because men don’t physically bear children. However, for us women, the boys we find attractive could have literally come from the same place we’re contemplating sending them back to. It’s enough to give us pause.
Strangely, this thought wasn’t what held me back. In that moment, I didn’t feel like anyone’s mother. I just wanted to enjoy a beer with a charming young man. (For the sake of this argument, let’s pretend my kids are off on a farm somewhere, living their best lives.) The real issue? I wasn’t entirely convinced I could pull it off. I definitely don’t look 19.
While I won’t share my exact age, let’s just say I have some eye crinkles, dark circles that no concealer seems to fix, and a few brow lines that have started to settle in. The skin under my chin has seen better days. On the flip side, my outfit was on point—jeans, a laid-back shirt, a leather jacket, and a backpack. Thanks to Clairol, I’m still gray-free, and my family has a reputation for looking younger than our years. So, was it a toss-up? I’d like to think so.
Just to clarify, I wasn’t wandering around campus aimlessly; I was there to speak on a panel about nonfiction writing. But I had some time to kill, so I took a stroll. Forgive me for that.
Now that I think about it, I might need to reevaluate my “free pass.” Currently, it’s assigned to Eddie Vedder or maybe Clive Owen—I go back and forth. If either were to invite me to their hotel, I might just accept, and my marriage wouldn’t suffer for it. Who wouldn’t be intrigued by the idea of being with someone who’s been with Eddie Vedder, after all? But lately, I’m starting to think my free pass should be for a fraternity guy in a flannel shirt come Homecoming, lounging on an unmade futon with Warren Zevon playing softly, a sweatband on the doorknob to keep his roommate at bay. That sounds more realistic than a celebrity encounter, right? After all, college is everywhere.
So, there I was, standing on fraternity row, struck by a revelation. I began to understand why some men are drawn to significantly younger partners. It’s not that these young women make them feel young; they already feel youthful. The desire for connection and attraction is a deeply ingrained impulse that doesn’t wane with age. When you spot a vibrant 20-something in a bar, you don’t think, “I’m 45 and she’s half my age.” Instead, you think, “I want her.” In that moment, you’re transported back to high school, filled with that same exhilarating desire and hope, but this time, you have the confidence and experience that comes with age.
In essence, your age is exactly what you believe it to be when you’re not actively considering it.
Confronted with a reminder of our youth, many of us experience a blend of nostalgia and longing. We yearn to relive those thrilling moments of desire that once defined us. One of my guilty pleasures is driving around my hometown with my husband, pretending he’s the high school sweetheart I never had. I also enjoy rewatching shows like My So-Called Life or Friday Night Lights, which capture the turmoil of teenage longing perfectly. Their portrayal of adult desire might be equally accurate, but I’m usually too engrossed in the teenage angst to notice.
Let me clarify: this isn’t an admission that I’m seeking an affair with a young athlete from my alma mater. It’s just a thought I had while contemplating the idea of crashing a kegger.
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In summary, the nostalgic pull of youth can be a powerful motivator for attraction and desire, regardless of age. The desire to reconnect with those feelings is universal, whether it manifests in thoughts of keggers or more serious reflections on life and love.
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