Ah. Gerard Butler. Medal-bearing saviour of little boys almost drowning in icy canals. Scottish. Able to lift whole tractor tyres using impressive back and thigh muscles (see last month's Men's Health mag). Speaks as if he's just been for a long run (breathy not breathless, ooo!). Channels the spirit of The Sean perfectly. Sings. Wikipedia says he's single.
Went to see 300 with Hubby Boo and Na'a de Coco a few days ago. They were babbling on about special effects and "totally shot in green screen" but I was most impressed with how the same body part could look so different on 300 different men, and each one have its own singular appeal. Yes, I nodded as I listened to the chatter about the visual effects, impressive special effects.
All the while imagining washing and scrubbing linen on those rippling stomachs (I swear that's all I was imagining).
Which brings me to my own fantasies about the state of my physical being today. In reality, I compare quite well to lumpy oatmeal stuffed into a not too unshapely sheepgut skin. If you squeeze hard enough, I change shape for a while. But in my mind, all possibilities open up. The floppy upper arms turn into svelte muscles, the saggy everything else into taut amazonian fighting machine. I'm not oatmeal, I'm Pussycat Doll.
So long-suffering Hubby Boo smiles benignly as I show him pictures of Gerard doing pull-ups on a beam in a country barn. It would look amaxingly gay but that scary expression of "I'm doing this because I'm incredibly testosterone-y and male" keeps it from tipping over into the pink. It's no fun watching those movies with guys, they just don't get it. So am hoping to rope some girls in to watching it sans les hommes so we can ooh and ahh without having to bother about those sketchy details like story and performance.
Am not salivating.