I mean I love males my son's age ... late teens, early twenties. They are so full of energy and hope, and (sorry guys) they're less mature than girls their age. I think that's why I find them so enchanting, frustrating, dear, lovable and often totally impossible. My friend Bettylou, who I consider a wise, wise woman, told me that boys are adolescents until they're at least 25. This by no means is meant to disparage them. It simply means that all our dear sons, and all their friends need help, support and encouragement in whatever form necessary. They bear watching...far beyond their teens. And, if you can possibly afford to retain an attorney that's probably wise. Kidding...but, truth in humor and all that...
I absolutely see that they are men...most certainly they are men. I would not denigrate their manhood, as nascent as that status may be. But look closely and you can still see the boy lingering there. And, if you have a heart, you so want to protect them.
They're all so good looking. Even the ones who aren't, are. They're naturally strong, they're beautiful, they have the body language of puppies. And oh, they take themselves so heartbreakingly seriously at times. That's when you must tread oh so lightly...no one should crush that kind of beauty...no one should trample a young, searching heart.
They still drive too fast, they probably smoke weed (if they live in California in all liklihood they have a prescription for it) and they notice every woman of every age. They see them all. They have testosterone embedded radar, sonar, GPS, and great peripheral vision. They miss nothing with ovaries.
I hadn't seen my son in several months months, life events having kept me on another coast. We agreed to meet - and the place selected was so perfectly the site of choice of a young man. "Where will you be my dear?" I asked. "Meet me on 'dirt Mullholland'."
I knew exactly what and where that was. For those unfamiliar with Los Angeles, Mullholland Highway is a narrow, winding, treacherous, gorgeous, wonderful two lane road that runs the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains that divide the city side of LA from the vast San Fernando Valley. The views are spectacular. "dirt Mullholland" is a stretch where the pavement runs out....it just does...runs out... right there in one of the world's major cities. The pavement eventually picks up again some miles further west. But it's simply been left with this glorious gap forever.
So, there, in the middle of this city, there are 11,ooo protected acres of protected land. There's a missle silo there, and hiking trails...picnic tables...and the smell of wild herbs, sage, rosemary, all intoxicating. I drove along Mullholland joyfully anticipating seeing my son, savoring the beauty and unable to restrain myself from stopping at one of the food trucks parked on shoulder of the road, because the Mexican fare served through the windows of those big trailers is incomparable and, being a mother, how could I not bring food. I rounded the wild curves and the bends for miles, and then dirt. The pavement's end. And there in the sunlight was Max's best friend Spencer, the top down on his old convertible, his long legs hanging over the side as he sprawled in the sun. A happy si
ght, a happy young man. And then there was my son, running down the hill, 5 % body fat....laughing, happy. Two best friends sharing their day. He caught me in a hug of young muscles. And my heart quickened at the sight of these two young, dear optimistic men, untouched as yet by the vicissitudes of life. Oh perhaps not entirely untouched, but unburdened. Soon enough for that...soon enough. Now it was a life of promise and fun and women and moods that shift with the wind and tide and have to be carefully, knowingly calibrated to give them the wide oprn arms they need.These are the champions, these laughing, randy young dudes. They are to be cherished...each and every one...so be it.
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