Springtime for Hitler in Germany

I don't actually need an ovulation predictor kit.
I can tell.
All of a sudden there'll be a random day after my period when every guy that walks past me smiles. opens the door. Gives my a munchkin with my coffee when I wasn't even looking at the donut trays.

My friend Kathy used to love it.
"Friday night after you get your period - we are going OUT."
It was like a beacon. I must emenate pheremones.
We'd party hearty in our pleather outfits like it was 1999.

Oh wait.

When I was younger, cuter, it happened with far more frequency.
The going out part. The being looked at part.
Now, being looked at? I can't imagine anyone has checked me out in the last 26 months.

Except for very old men.
For I am a geezer pleaser.

But today. Ah. Today the world was my oyster. I didn't have my virtually perfect day as envisioned in bygones paragraphs.

But the exceptionally virile hot cop who pulled my over for driving with my husbands expired inspection sticker and I had a moment.

As did the mechanic and I at the garage directly after.

Then the young man at the coffee shop where I waited.
and the two old men who sat while I whiled away the inspection minutes.
For a moment I was my old self.
Heads gave the illusion of turning.

Was it the promise of spring in the air?
The hint of sassiness in my new butchered mommy bob?
Or was one final dropping egg calling out with all it's might for a little recognition before we switch from annual pap smears to annual mammograms.

ah. The sweet sweet scent of fertility.
Celebrate it while it lasts I'm sure.