I hope I’m a MILF. Dad, if you’re reading this right now, please don’t google MILF. Basically, a MILF is a hot mom. Let’s just leave it at that.
Pregnancy does things. That incredible baby that comes out of you doesn’t come without a few trade-offs. You can lose the pregnancy weight but your belly doesn’t always quite recover. After two pregnancies, my stomach sags outward like it’s priming up for the next delivery. No amount of yoga or core body work has improved the situation. I wasn’t even familiar with the term “core body work” until after my second child. Core body work means: endless abdominal exercises that do nothing to flatten your poochy belly. It’s in Webster’s. I swear.
So take the state of my mid-section and add that to the twenty minutes I have to get ready in the morning and I’m not always feeling my sexiest, sassiest self. Somehow a pair of sunglasses and a quick coat of lip gloss is not equivalent to a blow-out, an eyebrow wax and an intimate relationship with one’s make-up bag. So the thought that there might be a stranger or two out there (maybe a construction worker, a doorman, a postal worker or even perhaps a mysterious Starbucks barista) who would consider me a MILF would be a little pick-me-up. I don’t want to know who they are. But I hope they are out there.
The other day a Con Ed guy did yell something at me from his truck. He must have been thinking, “Wow. Who is this super hot twenty-something? Isn’t she too young to have kids? Her husband is one lucky guy.” Either that or perhaps this 30-something girl was moving her double stroller too slowly across the street. But I choose to believe the first scenario. Believing is far easier than core body work.