Biff America: Sexy on the inside
“Hey, sexy legs!”
Normally, had I heard a female voice yelling those words from a passing vehicle, I would assume it was not meant for me. It would be like if someone said, “Hey, Rhodes scholar,” “Hey, great dancer” or “Hey, guy who never pees in the shower.” But as I looked up the road and over my shoulder behind me, my legs were the only ones around.
God knows I don’t like to brag, but my biggest strength is that I know what sucks about myself. And that said, I am fully aware that I don’t really have sexy legs.
Let me qualify that statement. For a man my age, my legs are OK. There are in fact two of them. But when compared to the legs of men in general, especially younger men — like Matt Damon, Brad Pitt or former President Jimmy Carter — my legs are just so-so.
I am OK with that. Since reaching my 60s, I am much more concerned with having a healthy prostate, heart, liver, kidneys and strong respiratory system than I am with cosmetic attributes like a full head of hair, smooth skin or sexy legs.
And just for the record, my lung is rocking.
But when Cara Hull drove by me as I was bicycling home last week, she didn’t yell anything about my prostrate. She yelled, “Hey, sexy legs.”
Had Cara driven by me and yelled, “Hey, nice organ,” my first inclination would be to check the fit of my bike shorts or assume she was talking about a musical instrument. Moreover, I know that Cara probably didn’t even look at my legs as she drove past me; she was just trying to be funny and nice.
Let’s face it, for a guy my age, when a younger or older (or even a dead) woman says any part of you is “sexy,” it makes you feel good, even if you have your doubts whether it’s true.
Now, Cara does in fact have sexy legs — legs that are about 30 years younger than mine. Though that being the case, had I been driving by her on her bicycle and yelled, “Hey, sexy legs,” by most considerations, I’d be a creep. That is both a double standard and a shame.
Due to the loutish behavior of the male species for, say, about the last several thousand years, men my age should probably not compliment young, old or any living woman on their body parts. Sure, we can praise them for their biking, skiing, intelligence, compassion or a host of any other qualities that do not serve to objectify them. Not that I know how that feels; I haven’t been objectified since the Hoover administration.
Before this virus hit, my bride and I attended a fancy wedding that required fancy outfits. (I wore my Cartier watch and carried my dress-knife.) Many of the gals attending were women we had known for years, though I had never seen them dolled up like they were that evening. Whether it was the lighting, hair and makeup, or clothing, they looked like something out of one of those magazines found at the place where I get my hair cut. Despite that, I felt weird about honestly telling any of them (other than my mate) how pretty they looked.
The rest of my ride was a joyful blur. I kept looking down at my legs to see if Cara saw something I had missed. Granted, my vision is not what it once was, but unfortunately they looked just as they had when I began the ride: pale, skinny and laced with veins.
Despite that, I arrived home from my bike ride glowing with self-satisfaction. My mate was in the front yard weeding.
“How was your ride?” she asked.
“Great!” I answered “Cara Hall drove past me, and said I had sexy legs.”
Ellie responded, “She’s so nice. I really like her. You do have sexy legs for a guy your age, but they cannot hold a candle to your prostate.”
Well, I hope not. That sounds painful.
Jeffrey Bergeron’s column “Biff America” publishes Mondays in the Summit Daily News. Bergeron has worked in TV and radio for more than 30 years, and his column can be read in several newspapers and magazines. He is the author of “Mind, Body, Soul.” Bergeron arrived in Breckenridge when there was plenty of parking and no stop lights. Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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