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October 26, 2005

Flirting with... Joyce Millman!

I have never written a chick-lit novel. I'm not even sure I know what the term means, except maybe that it's lit written by chicks. And how do you define "chick" anyway? When I was a kid, "chick" was a dirty word, but I find that the women I idolized when I was in my teens and 20s -- rockers like Chrissie Hynde and Bonnie Raitt -- now refer to themselves as chicks. And I'm right there with them. I don't mind being called a chick, as long as it's done on my terms. To me, a chick is someone who knows her worth, is comfortable with her sexuality but not defined by it, who can laugh at herself and roll with the punches. Most importantly, a chick has some years on her, chronologically, emotionally and intellectually. She has been the main course at the banquet and now she's been bumped down the menu in favor of the younger, more succulent and serious birds. But a chick doesn't mind being bumped down the menu. Down the menu is where the good stuff is, like dessert and Cognac.

Anyway, I've been asked to write a few words about the topic of the month, flirting. Now, back in the day, "flirting" was on the same no-no list as "chick". Silly girls flirted, not liberated women of substance. Liberated women of substance tempted their prey with heated political discussions over cheap wine, followed by mutually respectful sex within agreed upon boundaries. I feel cheated. I was robbed of the flirting experience by the prevailing social mores! Oh sure, I flirted when I was a teenager, but what did I know then? And I went to work at a newspaper in the '80s, when women were too busy inflating Boeing 747-sized shoulder pads to flirt with male colleagues. Besides, if we did flirt, the men would have sensed weakness and had us swiftly removed to the Lifestyle nunnery. Somewhere between then and now, I got married and had a baby. But wait! The kid is now 14 and, according to the women's magazines, I'm supposed to be in my middle-aged second adolescence. And, as luck would have it, I have emerged from hibernation into the glorious sunlight of an era where, I'm told, it's OK to be a flirt and a chick. Outta my way while I make up for lost time.

So, I try to flirt. The problem is, I think my internal flirt-age is stuck on 18. To the outside world, I'm Mrs. Robinson but inside I'm Elaine. I have set my sights on the cute twentysomething guy who works the meat counter at the supermarket. Each time he waits on me (flutter, flutter), I smile brightly and hope for the best. But Butcher Boy keeps things on a strictly professional level. Breasts, thighs, wham-bam-thank you, ma'am. How demoralizing.

However, I am a very successful flirtee. It seems that I have become a magnet for older men. Way older men. Like, in the 65-to-90 range. Wizened gents are always winking at me in the produce aisle or striking up conversations in parking lots. "I can't believe bell bottoms are back in style," one old smoothie said to me as I was bent over trying to reach a package deep in the trunk of my car. Well, they are, Gramps, and thanks for checking out my butt. Last Election Day, an elderly poll worker almost knocked his female colleague to the floor in his rush to paste an "I Voted" sticker on my left breast. And, yes, he copped a feel. Once, I was in a restaurant with my family and an elderly man with a walker stopped in his tracks, looked me in the eye and smiled -- behind his wife's back, I may add. Well, actually, it was behind the back of her wheelchair. That man was shameless.

I am resigned to never again being flirted with by anyone born after 1940. And, of course, my flirtation with Butcher Boy has been futile. (On the bright side, the intimidating female butcher recently told me I looked pretty, but that's another story, perhaps one best explored over political debate and cheap wine.) For now, I will confine my flirting to my husband. I'm pretty sure that he is required by law to flirt back. And if he doesn't, I have a few seasoned admirers who would love to have me for dessert.

Joyce Millman's essays about TV and pop culture have appeared in the New York Times, Salon.com, the San Francisco Examiner, Variety and the Boston Phoenix. Her work also appears in the BenBella anthologies Alias Assumed and the upcoming Mapping the World of Harry Potter. She lives in the San Francisco area with her husband and son. She contributed the humorous essay "Pride and Prejudice: The Reality Show" to Flirting With Pride and Prejudice, available in stores now from BenBella Books!

Posted by Lani at 7:52 AM | Comments (2)

Comments

Posted by: mystery at October 26, 2005 9:59 PM

Posted by: Cee Cee at October 30, 2005 12:29 PM