And the most attractive asset of all, he is young. When I saw my painter balancing two stories high on a ladder with a paint can held by one finger, I was convinced painting houses was just his hobby. And never mind the henna that was aimlessly dripping down the side of my neck from underneath my shower cap and onto my robe. His biceps are bigger than my husband's waist and the dark hair on his head is even bigger.

What caused me to begin to lose my curly red head, you ask.

What more could a woman want I fantasized while loading the dishwasher for the millionth time, my estrogen pill melting on my tongue without water because the dishwasher hose was still attached to the sink faucet. The Rock, or whatever his name, was painting my house. If I Were Only Eighteen Again I'm in love with the guy who is painting my house. Three men could inhabit his muscular body and there would still be extra room. Well, not in a 'Love' love way, but in a sort of "if I were only 18 again" way.

There was no doubt in my mind that on his 'real work' days he was in the ring giving a slam dunk to his WWF opponent.