I can’t think of the last time I noticed anyone looking at me. You know: looking at me. Checking me out.

If it’s been a long time since I noticed anyone noticing me, it’s been, like, YEARS since anyone’s actually made a pass at me, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Hit on me? Flirted, that’s a better term. No one ever flirts with me anymore, and I can’t believe I’m whining about this, but hey guess what I AM.

Maybe it’s because I give off a strong Married-with-Kids vibe, maybe it’s because I feel about as sexy most days as a nudibranch (which despite the titillating “nudie” in their name and the surprising fact that they are hermaphroditic, are still sea slugs, and therefore unsexy by definition), maybe it’s because I’m no longer young and/or reckless, but it kind of bothers me. I don’t really know how to say it without sounding shallow as hell — or worse, like I’m fishing for compliments — but the more time goes by without even, say, a quick sidelong glance of appreciation, the more invisible and frumpy I feel.

My husband, who is both sweet and as lecherous as they come, constantly compliments me in an exotic mix of gentlemanly and mildly offensive ways, and I love, love, LOVE that and obviously I love HIM and I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m TROLLING for something, it’s just that . . . oh, this is just getting more and more embarrassing. It’s just that even though he thinks I look good, and despite my raging insecurities there are often times when I think I look good, I miss other people thinking I look good. I miss innocent, yet esteem-boosting eyeballings. I miss feeling like a desirable woman.

This is dumb, right? Weird AND dumb. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a happily married woman complain about the issue of Not Being Ogled By Strangers before, which either means all of you are getting ogled on a regular basis or only a total douchebag would notice or care about something so ridiculous. WAIT DON’T TELL ME.


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14 years ago

I think since you are young and beautiful it isn’t that you aren’t being noticed, but you aren’t noticing that you’re being noticed…what with your focus on ensuring the safety of certain little men that require attention to keep them from harms way. I find, when I’m out with my kids, that I don’t notice a lot of what goes on around me. I’m busy tracking them as they float in spectacularly random orbits around me and whatever aisle I’m in.