When I was in my 20s I had a lot of fun picking up. It was the thrill of the chase that I liked...the excitement of the erotic dance and the first kiss...and, then, come what may. It was innocent, girly fun, nothing more than cheap and easy pleasure.
I remember my last pick up (or did he pick me up?). I was 31, at some dodgy night club is Brisvegas. I locked eyes with a cute boy across the dance floor who sidled over. We danced for a while then went and had a drink.
"So, how's it going?" I asked.
"Yeah, pretty good."
"You from around here?"
"Yeah, I go to uni."
"Right! And do you hang out here much?"
"Not often. It's always full of old people in their 30s."
Okay, then! Well, I'd better get home and put my teeth in a glass of water and get the old jim jams and slippers on.
I thought, my picking up days are over. But I was wrong!
Today, with two young children, picking up has taken on a whole different meaning. While picking up in my 20s involved seductive smiles, flirtatious small talk and the old pump and grind on the dance floor, picking up in my 30s involves a lot of time bent over to pick up toys, clothes, half eaten vegemite sandwiches...
At the close of each day, I sweep through the house like a Whirling Dervish to put everything back in its place, only to have it strewn everywhere the next morning 10 minutes after the kids get up.
I'm looking forward to the days when the kids are a little older and I can be bent over doing other things!
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