48 and counting, but I’m not slowing down yet.

You notice the yoga pants first — the way they grip every curve like a second skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

You find your eyes tracing the lines of a body that forty-eight years have only sharpened, toned in ways that make your breath catch somewhere low in your chest.

You want to look away and realize quickly you have no intention of doing that — this is confidence worn like heat, and you feel it radiating straight through the screen, pulling at something hungry and immediate inside you.