It's a small (OK, big) consolation that I turn heads everywhere I go around here.



Not that I have much competition. Men, mostly, who favor long, stringy hair, balding on top, accented by generous (yet ill-kempt) facial hair.



There are a few chicks. Like the ex-wife of my my most recent ex-boyfriend (who works in the same hallway) and the now ex-girlfriend of my penultimate ex-boyfriend (who still blights a number of my meetings with her presence), but these chicks just do not have my panache.



Anyway. I enjoy all the wide-eyed, longing looks I get, mostly from men who look like they've crawled out of the primordial ooze. But there are a few hotties too. Doubtless all married, all with girlfriends, or all mentally ill.



(And special thanks to RB who saw my summit photo from Mt. Rainier and said I looked like "Lara Croft!")



But these looks aren't going to help me when I'm in the nursing home: old, alone, with no one to visit me. L'il Sis and Super Brother-in-Law will be too busy jetting around the country to their various palazzos, and visiting their perfect granchildren to pay much attention to the likes of me.



Or maybe they'll put me in the attic of their San Francisco mansion and let me rot away up there, with only my yellowing photos of happier days for company. Then I won't be able to harrass the poor old men in the nursing home with my shouts of "I was a hottie once, you know! They even said I looked like Lara Croft! Wanna get married?"



Good luck finding another brainy girlfriend who looks like Lara Croft, whats-your-name. That's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right there. But there's always the next life, isn't there?