Attack of the hot dads
There’s a rash of hot dads around.
This weekend I took stock of yuppie trends in London’s yuppie control stations: Peckham and Hampstead.
The truth – as truth tends to do – suddenly overwhelmed me though it’s been obvious for a while now.
Dilfs are the new milfs.
Back when I was a child, Dads were Dads. They weren’t tousle-haired, Diesel jean-wearing, Prada spectacled, Converse-footed tanned GODS. I asked a man for a light at Franks Campari Bar in Peckham last night because he was all of the above. He had great big brown eyes too, which looked especially sexy after he told me off for not saying “please”. But then I saw his ring. And only seconds after, he was talking about his recent exodus from Peckham to Devon to pursue a pastoral dream for his 2 year old daughter. A dad. A married Dad who gardens in distressed jeans and a leather jacket. Bet his daughter’s called Alighiera or Mesmerelda or Jupitessa or something.
In Hampstead today it was farcical. Every time my head spun round at the sight of some new sumptuous tousled head or finely Lee Jeans’d behind, I saw a buggy too. Outside the pub a bald beefcake with wife and toddler gave me the eye. I took one look at his FAMILY and headed on my way, shaking my head, confused. In the Yogurty ice cream shop, a dark studmuffin wearing a red tshirt, probably Israeli (my favourite), looked up with a smile from the hot pink family area of the shop. Then I saw that he was handling a rumbunctious five year old boy who he left with shortly after (Mom was at home).
The problem is that these hot dads are all in their 30s, many of them under 35. This puts them roughly in my age group (I’m 28. ) I have entered a critical age bracket which for the first time puts me and PARENTS in the same socio-chronological group. You know when you’re 14 and you fancy 16 year olds. This is like that. Dads are the new 16 year olds. This feeling of hot dad ubiquity also draws (only mild) attention to a) the fact that I’m at socially acceptable, even encouraged, family-starting age and b) how far I am from ACTUALLY being at that point. I should probably have my own Dilf right now, only he’d be the Dilf of my own child, not some snotty ice cream-guzzling toddler in Yogurty.
And you know what? Hot dads put us pervs in a tricky position. Ogling a man with a buggy (and a wife somewhere, though you didn’t see any today) just feels wrong. There’s a child there, for Christ’s sake.
Where does this leave us? I suppose it’s time to find a pre-Dilf – a GILF (guy I’d like to…) and make him a Dilf, if, as and when.
PS I can predict a few objections to this post. That it’s a London thing, my sample size isn’t big enough (pshaw) and that there are SOCIOECONOMICTRENDOID reasons for this more fashionable, read HOT, appearance in young fathers, partly to do with the way liberal lifestyles have evolved across fashion and breeding styles. Some of you may point out – pointlessly – that there are still plenty of unhot young dads around, or that back in your day, Dads were also hot. But you can read that kind of balanced, sociologically meticulous post on ANOTHER blog. Or mine, but at ANOTHER time.