Op-Ed: Your Mom Is Hot, Why Are You Like That?

This parents’ weekend was an opportunity for a beautiful observational study. Sitting in the baby quad, I attempted to make the most of the remnants of sunshine and good fortune by picking something to draw. This woman, forty-six perhaps in age but gorgeous-scrumptious in looks, passes by. She sits on one of the benches and starts typing on her phone — sheathed in a magnificent millenially-purple flip case — so elegantly with her hyper-extended index finger. Sharp nose and fresh blow out, and capri pants, with beddazled strapped wedge slippers, she is trying to find her green guest pass on her phone. By the time she finds it, I observe, some boy comes by…

Mom, should we head to Louie Louie now?  

I snap out of my dreamy study. Mom…

My eyes droop, the glimmer is gone, and the green grass turns gray, and suddenly a cold breezes swoop up my arm hairs. I do not want to sketch anymore; capturing the lady’s beauty would only be a testament to some egregious mishap in the history of mankind. How could she have produced… that.