The force is strong with this middle-aged Mama. I possess a supernatural power that has been quietly brewing for years. Only recently uncovered, this energy was unleashed by the seemingly innocent act of opening a Facebook account. Yes, my friends, I am a Freak Magnet.
For my entire adult life, I have been deemed by my husband as the “Most Un-Approachable Woman on the Face of the Planet". Honestly, it’s a title I relish. I may even get it printed on a sash one day. People who know me in real life probably think I’m aloof and distant. I just like to think that I’m eccentric and introspective. I have quietly slipped through life mostly unnoticed. I don’t say very much. I don’t drive a flashy car. I'm not beautiful like Angelina Jolie nor do I have the quick wit of Jon Stewart. I just wear my black pants and black shirt, and quickly turn the other way if I see you at the grocery store, deftly avoiding unwanted chitchat. It’s not that I don’t care what your kids are up to at school or where your family is heading for their next fabulous vacation, not at all. I’m just an unsociable wallflower, and that's okay with me.
So why are the freaks coming out of the woodwork to send me completely inappropriate Facebook messages? These are people who barely know me at best. They must remember my plaid skirts and Izod shirts from junior high and high school, but certainly they have no carnal knowledge of me. Just thinking that I may have been the object of their unrequited affection brings one word to mind – Eww. (Okay, so that's not really a word.) What gives them the idea that I would enjoy knowing they were thinking of me last night while watching "The Breakfast Club", or that they regret not asking me out on a date a quarter century ago? You can still be a loser even if you ARE the owner of a high-end sports car or high-powered executive position. Maybe I should make that my next Facebook status.
I have studied my Facebook page with the eyes of a middle-aged pervert. gNo cleavage in my profile picture. Check. No pictures of me with my tongue sticking out and a Miller Lite lifted high in the Southern “raise hell” tradition. Check. No quiz results for “What Sexual Position Are You” or “What Kind of Lover Are You”. Check. Where am I going wrong here? I’m a dork even on a good day. Does my profile say something to contradict the real me?
I have confirmed with other Facebook friends that I’m not the only woman (or man for that matter) who receives sordid invitations from people they only vaguely remember from the elementary school cafeteria. I even had a twenty-year-old acquaintance tell me “You sho are purdy, Miss Lynda”. I told him that he needs to get out more, and that I’m old enough to be his Mama - literally. I guess a few beers and the security of a computer screen make some people type things they would never say face to face, especially if they were looking into the steely glare of a woman who had to clean up dog poop, make cupcakes for a school party, and then run 6 miles in 100% humidity.
Okay, I’ll admit it. Secretly, it makes me feel good that, at forty years of age, guys are taking notice. (Even if they are mostly guys that I would never give the time of day to.) I’ll let them make their comments. It does wonders for my ego. I’ll giggle under my breath when no one is looking, check my hair in the mirror, and then hit “Delete”.