On Saturday mornings, I sit beside my beloved husband on the sidelines of a soccer field with great views: Denver’s skyline unfolding above the Rocky Mountains and, in the foreground, the floppy-haired 20-something coaching our daughter. My husband calls him “The Child,” equating the college student with the unwieldy herd of third-graders repeatedly kicking the ball out of bounds. The Child is undeniably terrible at his task, oblivious to the 8-year-old goalie sitting cross-legged behind the netting, ignoring the two players slapping each other, and occasionally pleading with the team to just, “Shut up, please !” And yet, unexpectedly, and to my horror, he has caught my almost-40-year-old eye.

I wish I could claim this as an anomaly, but increasingly, I’ve been crushing on younger peopl

See Full Page