I knew I was getting older when Andy Griffith started looking attractive in those Matlock reruns. (RIP, dear Andy.) As a girl, I was really on the hunt for a good dancer. Now I want “doesn’t gamble away the mortgage money.” Eventually I’ll be thrilled with “doesn’t drool.”
Back in high school, if Mr. Bates (the Downton Abbey one, not the creepy motel one) had asked me to the prom, I’d have said, “No way—what’s with the bowler hat?” Now I appreciate a guy who serves you breakfast in bed and already owns a tux. Given the choice between David Beckham and David Letterman, I want the David who makes me laugh. Given the choice between Jon Hamm and John Cleese, I want . . . well, I want Jon Hamm. But the idea became especially appealing when Don Draper turned 40 and seemed to be settling down.
Stability is sexy. Devotion is sexy. A knowing smile and silver Matlock locks are sexy.
Hmm. Wait. Maybe I’m not defining a mature man. Maybe I’m defining a mature me.
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