The One About McDreamy + Double Standards

Mostly mine, although maybe some of yours too... But let's celebrate People's Sexiest Man Alive regardless, because we could all do with a li'l hit of joy

Back in 2005, I was pregnant with my eldest daughter when McDreamy first hit my consciousness. So, no, I wasn’t getting out much. And yes, I had encountered the boyish charm of Patrick Dempsey before then – he’d been the somewhat geeky love interest of enough 80s romcoms for me to know exactly who he was. Or did I?! Gone were the dorky curls and boy-next-door charm and in its place – in scrubs no less – was a brooding, chiselled sex bomb. Hey, we were all thinking it.

What could have been chalked up to my pregnancy hormones became an instant global phenomenon. A thirsty TikTok meme just waiting for TikTok to be introduced to the masses 11 years later. And last week, that same man – borne of 80s romcoms, but coming of age in blue hospital scrubs in a lift - became People’s Sexiest Man Alive. Aged 57. Jesus, take the wheel.

So, riddle me this: is it a sign of the devastating effect of the patriarchy that I want to pluck out a stubborn grey hair, but literally fall into a dead swoon at the sign of Patrick Dempsey’s locks. Fight me – they are locks. There is no other word that does his head of hair justice! Why are my friends and I discussing the effects of retinol versus vampire facials and lip filler versus Botox and collagen versus creases when Pat is being crowned Sexiest Man Alive with a cragginess we’d Galderma into another dimension if it found its way to us?! I know, these are unanswerable questions. Ek vra maar net.

I’m equally guilty of checking out my own flaws while simultaneously checking out a silver fox in the next minute. And I guess simply naming ‘em ‘silver fox’ does half the job! I describe men like Pat, like Brad, like Idris, like Lenny Kravitz (deep breaths) as aging like fine wine. All except Jared Leto who I describe as vampire because he is quite literally aging backwards, FFS. When David Beckham dons a chunky cardi in his new documentary, I am delighted at his homespun sexiness. When I don a cardi, I look like I’m going to garden in a retirement home.

While they’re all ooh la la silver foxiness, I describe myself as somewhere between the fourth Witch Of Eastwick and the aunts in the Practical Magic house… Loves wearing black, hair generally pulled into a messy something, makes a mean margarita. It tracks, can you see it? God, we’re absolutely painful to ourselves.

Jilly Cooper did it best – every rakish man over a certain age in her bonkbuster books (not my word but it is fabulous – she invented The Genre! I think this title must now surely be held by fantasy writers!) was a silver fox. The women were rapacious. Jilly herself sounds like she’s still pretty rapacious – she has just released her latest, erm, bonkbuster entitled Tackle! – I kid you not – aged 83. I adore the woman!

If you have never read any of her books, they are perfect fodder for a holiday, although you’d be better off not reading them through the lens of 2023 – everyone is posh, distinctly heterosexual and everyone – I do mean everyone – is unfaithful to one another. They’re all bonking everybody in between loving their dogs and riding their horses. She is quoted in The UK Sunday Times as saying: “They are unbelievable the upper classes, aren’t they? They just have to screw. They’ve always been a bit like that. I suppose its has changed a bit today as they don’t’ want to get whatsisnamed.” She means #MeToo’d.  PS Riders, her first mega smash, is about to be a series on Disney.

I digress… We are constantly telling our teens that social media can be toxic and not to compare yourself to any of the Kardashian Jenner Hadids because none of them began life looking that plumped, pulled and polished, but then we go right ahead in weighing up JLo (she’s 54, btw) with our own mirrored reflections.

In this spirit of self-love, I now prefer to compare myself to the guy looking pissed off, stomping alongside JLo. Ben Affleck is my menopause spirit animal – perpetually looking aggrieved, slamming car doors in an annoyed fashion, all with a giant coffee clutched in his hand. I look at him and that’s exactly how I reckon we need to attack self-love – with a major give a fork attitude to what anyone else thinks, fully believing in my own bomb dot comness.

Emma Thomson gave a brilliant quote to talk show host Stephen Colbert – I fear everything that comes out of her mouth is brilliant, so I may be a leeetle biased. She said: “Don’t waste your time, don’t waste your life's purpose worrying about your body. This is your vessel, it’s your house, it's where you live, there's no point in judging it, absolutely no point, but it's very hard to do.” Louder for the people in the back.

I know while Patrick is brushing out his lustrous locks and slipping into his designer tuxedo before stepping onto his speedboat in Venice and waving to the adoring crowd, he’s not thinking “Good grief, I hope I don’t look fat in this.” Nor is he wondering whether his cleavage is still creased from his morning snooze. Nor whether his mascara has clumped onto his upper lids. Nor whether his hair is bouncy enough, his bum pert enough… I’m getting distracting, his bum is deffos pert enough and so is his hair!

I leave you with this: he’s People’s Sexiest Man Alive. A proper grown up. A man who looks like he has stories to tell, knows how to pour you a cocktail, light a fire (fine, a braai) and tell a good joke. We are all him, albeit with a somewhat less lusty bank balance and fandom. We can all wear our silver foxiness. Even People magazine has given us permission. Well, sort of. They gave the dudes permission, but I reckon we take it. I know Ben would.