It's just a ride, just a ride.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

Something has been happening lately. And it is a something I’m not quite sure how to handle. It has been present within my peripheral landscape for the past week. Finally, at the height of my confusion, it formed into a singular focus. I realized what was happening.

Women are noticing me.

Yes, I’m being ogled, sized up and looked at in a way I have rarely experienced, especially in quantity. At Whole Foods, on Wilshire, even at fucking yoga. I needed to get to the bottom of this strange and recent phenomenon, to piece together events to uncover the shared strings. I needed to go Columbo.

I started at the top.

1. The hair-I’ve recently began to grow my hair out a bit. I’ve sort of got the Owen Wilson thing going, and not in the good way. My friend described my hair and lack of product as “homeless.” To my benefit, it is in one of those horrible in-between stages, but could it be the lid?

2. Jim*- Two of the three times ladies have been checking me out, we've been together. Now Jim has a pretty recognizable mug in this town. He’s a classic example of someone whose face you know, but have no idea of his name. Kinda like that fat guy, Big Pussy, on the Sopranos. So maybe that was it. They were checking him out, and naturally moved to me, to see if I was “anybody.” Maybe it was the halo effect?

I went further down the list, crossing things off as I went, shoes, shirts, etc. There was really nothing that seemed to stand out as different. I needed a woman’s perspective. I called Tracy.

“It’s me,” I said when she picked up the phone.

“Yea, I know, what’s up?”

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are women noticing me?” I asked.

“Rob, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Girls, actually, ladies are noticing me a lot more lately. I just need a women’s perspective. Is it my hair?” I asked, with complete earnestness.

“God no, your hair? Ha, Rob, you think it’s your hair?” she said, laughing almost uncontrollably.

“Let’s keep this in a ‘yes’ and ‘no’ format.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, continuing to laugh, “no.”

“Ok, how about Jim*?”

“Oh, God, are you serious? No, people are looking at Jim, believe me. No.”

“I got nothing else,” I said, dejectedly, then it came to me, “Wait, what about that shirt I bought, the blue one with the cool stitching.”

“Oh, that one’s hot. Now you’re talking. It was probably that.”

“No, I was only wearing that at Whole Foods,” I said, pondering.

“Rob, let me ask you this, did these occurrences perhaps place you near your new car?”

“Uh, let me see,” I said as I thought that over. Ok, at the market the girl saw me loading up my bags, the chick on Wilshire was at a stoplight. My thought process was interrupted.

“Rob, hello, did you forget about me?” Tracy said, “Quit thinking. Take it from me, it’s the car.”

“You’re shitting me. I never got noticed in a Porsche, but in a Volvo I do?”

“Rob, truthfully, the only guys that drive fancy cars are ugly ones. I mean, unless you’re famous or rich or something. But most guys are like in mid-life crisis mode, all bald and gross, with like weird hats on.”

"Uh, I don't fit any of those categories," I said.

“That's because people think you have a bad case of the ‘look at me’s’,” she said.

“Wow, love the honest approach today.”

“Rob, I’m sorry. You’re not one of those guys, but people might have thought you were, you know? It’s just been a tough day at work. I’ll try to be nicer.”

“Ok, so why would chicks like a Volvo?”

“Because it says you’re grown up. Not trying to be somebody cool. You’re just being who you are. Ok that sounded incredibly lame, like some CK thing, but really, it means you’re not escalating, but rather you’ve arrived. And not in the way a Porsche would mean you’ve arrived, with cash and all. The Volvo means you’ve arrived full circle, with confidence and stuff. You’ve found your happy place with life and can be yourself.”

“Wow, really?” I asked pondering my new image.

“Yea, fool.”

“But wait, I haven’t found my happy place.”

“Who fucking cares? It’s just when we see a guy in a kinda cool responsible car, we feel a more grown-up attraction. Kind of like a hot guy with a cute kid. It ignites something maternal and biological in us. That’s kind of what a Volvo does. We’re not looking for stand-up sex in a dirty bathroom with a Volvo driver, just maybe some nice head after an outdoor concert, drunk on wine.”

“You’re fucking wacked.”

“We all are Rob, not just me.”

“All right, let’s review. So you mean, I’m not looked at because I’m hot or have a cool blue shirt or hang with a celeb or have Owen Wilson hair? I’m looked at because I appear to be husband and head material in a Volvo?”

“Damn, that’s exactly right. I need to write that down. But you’re giving yourself a bit too much credit in the hair department.”

“I think our conversation is now over, thanks.”

“Oh Rob, you’re welcome. So sensitive. Anyway, See you at Chucks?” she asked, referring to a friend’s art opening in Topanga.

“I’m sensing you are asking for a ride. Is that because you want a designated driver, or just because you want to play married couple?” I asked.

“Because I love Luke Wilson, that’s all.”

I hung up, feeling more smug than I had in quite some time. What Tracy said made sense, in a really fucking weird way. I guess Shelfie was wrong. I guess a Volvo is so safe and uncool, that it is cool. Is that it? A bit of geek chic perhaps. I needed to run it through a male filter, but I started to get it. And once I master this whole mindset I will no doubt use it for my own selfish benefit. Maybe even buy a carseat or two, just for added effect.

Hmm, I think its time to take a little ride.

*fake name.