I don’t keep it a secret when I find a movie star or musician attractive. I hear some people actually have social filters, but apparently, I’m not one of them, because I’ve gone from the teenager squealing at a Duran Duran concert to the middle-aged lady shouting, “Take it off, Simon!” at a Duran Duran concert.
But at what point is it inappropriate to shout “Hubba hubba!” in a movie theater every time someone like, say, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson appears onscreen? (And why won’t my teenage nephews go to the movies with me anymore?)
I bring this up only because of a conversation I had at work the other day. One of the guys (we’ll call him “Phelix”) finds it amusing that I will absolutely go to a movie that stars Johnson, Jason Statham, Vin Diesel, or that guy who plays Thor as long as he has long hair and is wearing a skirt, even if said film sounds terrible. Phelix will often stop by my desk to ask me to rate the Marvel superheroes in order of physical attractiveness, then pop by the next day for a list of the best Stone Cold Steve Austin movies (there’s only one that qualifies as not terrible). He thinks I’m a nut, but that’s okay: he’s a nut, too.
“You seen Rampage yet?” he asked Tuesday.
“No,” I admitted. (I was supposed to see it in the theater and review it back in April, but my appendix had other plans, and my best writing friend stepped up to the plate to spend two hours watching the Rock and reviewing the flick. No idea if he shouted “Hubba hubba,” but it’s unlikely.)
Phelix cared about none of this. “You haven’t? And you call the Rock your boyfriend,” he added scornfully. (It’s true. I do.)
“Hey,” I said. “I’ve seen Baywatch twice.”
“You did? He look good in that?”
“Yup. Though I have to admit . . . so did Zac Efron.”
At this statement, a look of pure disgust, like I was the lowest scum of society, crossed Phelix’s face. “Hey, now, lady. No talk like that,” he hissed.
I was stumped. Did Phelix feel so strongly about my imaginary love affair with the Rock that I’d just committed some sort of unforgivable betrayal?
Phelix went on. “What is he, sixteen? Pervert!”
Oh! He thinks I’m a pedo—wait, wait, wait. “Zac Efron is thirty,” I said quickly.
Phelix didn’t believe me.
“C’mon, I’ll show you. Let’s look it up,” I said, whipping out my iPhone.
“I don’t need to see your sicko photos, thank you,” he said, holding up a hand.
“Will you please—just—look, here’s IMDB. He’s thirty, see? He’ll be thirty-one in October.”
It turns out the last thing Phelix had seen Efron in was High School Musical, which came out in 2006. And although—and I think it’s important to note this—Efron was eighteen, or legal age, when that came out, he did look like he was fourteen, tops. I tried to explain to Phelix that I did not in any way find High School Musical-era Efron appealing. I brought up a Baywatch-era Efron photo, but Phelix just squeezed his eyes shut and told me to be gone with my filth.
Long story short: the answer is thirteen years age difference. If your movie star crush is thirteen years or more younger than you, keep your mouth shut.
But at what point is it inappropriate to shout “Hubba hubba!” in a movie theater every time someone like, say, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson appears onscreen? (And why won’t my teenage nephews go to the movies with me anymore?)
I bring this up only because of a conversation I had at work the other day. One of the guys (we’ll call him “Phelix”) finds it amusing that I will absolutely go to a movie that stars Johnson, Jason Statham, Vin Diesel, or that guy who plays Thor as long as he has long hair and is wearing a skirt, even if said film sounds terrible. Phelix will often stop by my desk to ask me to rate the Marvel superheroes in order of physical attractiveness, then pop by the next day for a list of the best Stone Cold Steve Austin movies (there’s only one that qualifies as not terrible). He thinks I’m a nut, but that’s okay: he’s a nut, too.
“You seen Rampage yet?” he asked Tuesday.
“No,” I admitted. (I was supposed to see it in the theater and review it back in April, but my appendix had other plans, and my best writing friend stepped up to the plate to spend two hours watching the Rock and reviewing the flick. No idea if he shouted “Hubba hubba,” but it’s unlikely.)
Phelix cared about none of this. “You haven’t? And you call the Rock your boyfriend,” he added scornfully. (It’s true. I do.)
“Hey,” I said. “I’ve seen Baywatch twice.”
“You did? He look good in that?”
“Yup. Though I have to admit . . . so did Zac Efron.”
At this statement, a look of pure disgust, like I was the lowest scum of society, crossed Phelix’s face. “Hey, now, lady. No talk like that,” he hissed.
I was stumped. Did Phelix feel so strongly about my imaginary love affair with the Rock that I’d just committed some sort of unforgivable betrayal?
Phelix went on. “What is he, sixteen? Pervert!”
Oh! He thinks I’m a pedo—wait, wait, wait. “Zac Efron is thirty,” I said quickly.
Phelix didn’t believe me.
“C’mon, I’ll show you. Let’s look it up,” I said, whipping out my iPhone.
“I don’t need to see your sicko photos, thank you,” he said, holding up a hand.
“Will you please—just—look, here’s IMDB. He’s thirty, see? He’ll be thirty-one in October.”
It turns out the last thing Phelix had seen Efron in was High School Musical, which came out in 2006. And although—and I think it’s important to note this—Efron was eighteen, or legal age, when that came out, he did look like he was fourteen, tops. I tried to explain to Phelix that I did not in any way find High School Musical-era Efron appealing. I brought up a Baywatch-era Efron photo, but Phelix just squeezed his eyes shut and told me to be gone with my filth.
Long story short: the answer is thirteen years age difference. If your movie star crush is thirteen years or more younger than you, keep your mouth shut.
I'm sorry, what were we talking about? I got distracted.
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