It seems that fifty is the new thirty and grannies are getting cuter. Not since Angie Dickinson have so many mothers of mothers been so sexy. If you’re under thirty and are now making that face–the one you make when you shake someone’s wet, clammy hand–you’re mean, oblivious, and on behalf of all the GILFs around me, I suggest you go hump a bike rack.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a walking fossil. I insist that I’d be lumpy over these women even if were Twilight-ish. Women over forty are exceptionally attractive because they’re self-assured and sassy. Yee Haa! These women don’t want you to spend the night any more than you do. They have their own (or their future exes’) credit cards. Rarely will you need to rescue one from a curbside puking fit, because GILF’s livers are fit. And, best of all, like Vons before a snowstorm, they’re almost out of fresh eggs.

These women fascinate me. Finding a lovely set of tatas, a shapely caboose in white jeans, and a thick head of silky hair on a grandmother is a pleasant surprise. It’s like finding:

  • an actual Padres fan at a Padres game.
  • a Maserati at the drive-thru window.
  • a talented person on a reality TV.
  • a slim biker driving his Harley without wearing a ridiculous leather jacket, a matted beard, and bad tattoos.
  • an injured soccer player.
  • pageant contestants without I-just-inhaled-helium voices.
  • a bartender who loves making Mojitos.
  • an officer, bouncer, or judge with a sense of humor.
  • a music video on MTV.
  • evidence of a brain pulse on Sarah Palin.

It’s true that those lovely attributes on the GILF were typically enhanced in some way. So what? Accentuate the positive and conceal the negative. I wear a baseball cap, closed-toe shoes, and veneers. If the GILF works hard to keep her “ILF” status, I admire her. She’s worth keeping because she’ll always try to stay attractive. Those Barbies pounding lattes, beer, and frozen dinners will soon see the day when that top button won’t cooperate. The GILFs have been there and have overcome.

Men, I implore you: Fight your urge to net a doe. They’re not worth the effort. Track yourself a GILF and you’ll enjoy the spoils thoroughly. A bit of fat makes the meat taste better, right? Consider those lumps, spots, and wrinkles signs that she’s a succulent specimen. They will also earn you a pass for your sagging, balding, and graying parts. Fawns see those and text all their friends for exit advice. GILFs see those and want to compare battle stories, a la Jaws.

Be proud, GILFs of America, and leave those bellybutton concealers off your behind. Here I come with my scooter to ride you off into the sunset (after a quick pee stop, please). Oh, do you have a spare set of cheaters you can bring along so I can read my fucking tab when it comes?

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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