There’s a new fever on the street. It’s hot blooded, smells like cheap cologne, and smirks. It’s name is the LB. And I’m all over it.
The LB – short for Little Boy – is the (obvious) male counterpart to the ever so popular LG – Little Girl. An early twenty-something man-boy that is found undeniably attractive by a mid-twenties something woman (hereafter referred to as panthers). While at first glance, the LB may appear to be of neutral age and extreme maturity, the panther learns quickly through portrayal of his physical exuberance and his frequent consumption of enough cheep beer to swallow a river-side town, that she has been fooled. The LB, however, exudes such a charm that the Panther has no control over her attraction and no choice but to allow herself to be totted around town in some variation of an illegal car, with her hands up in the air like she just don’t care.
Please. I am SO not the only one who is dealing with this. Maybe it’s another quarter life crisis things – but the older I get, the more I crave the wishy-washy nature of a solid LB. Here I am with bills to pay and nothing figured out (thanks, T Swift) and a whole lot of anxiety about the whole thing – where as the LB has bills to pay and nothing figured out and doesn’t actually give a rats ass about the whole situation.
Plans? Never! Talk about the future? Hell no! Serious discussions over aged Cab Sauv? Most likely not (but you’ll drink it right out of the bottle over a game of ping pong). The LB – while usually interested in fake blondes, tall blondes, big breasted blondes and adorable you just want to squeeze them blondes – makes a lot of exceptions when it comes to the panther, too. While she may change her sleep schedules, her taste in beer, her tolerance for loud mouths and fast cars, he knows he must change as well.
Mostly because he knows that whatever his plans were going to be that day are going to be absolutely ruined by the fact she chose to show up in 5 inch power heels.
Ah, the LB. The sweat and swagga of college kids, beach bums, apprentices, Mama’s Little Ones and good ol’ boys. Are they not the perfect accessory for summer? The answer is yes, yes they are. Sure I won’t be caught dead buying anything from Billabong these days, but dammit, I own Toms and that’s a start! Put me in your rusty pick up truck (with a blanket on the seat, obviously) and I’ll troll around the streets of downtown with you at dusk. Have a road pop or three. Stick my feet out the window and pretend I listen to whatever the heck it even is coming out of your speakers. Call in sick to work the next day so I can sleep until noon and do it all over again.
The thing about summer is that it just doesn’t feel the same since we got real jobs. Since we started having to wear cardigans. Since we stopped drinking beer from paper bags. Since we started caring about pedicures. Since we started dating guys that wear suits in 30 degree weather…
So instead of jeopardising your future in the advertising market, I tell you, seriously: just go and get yourself an LB. He’ll be cheaper than that Kate Spade beach bag you have your eyes on and he won’t take you anywhere you’ll need it. Promise.
Now go forth and frolic.
xo & yw
