Age provocateur

MANILA, Philippines - Oh, to be young and well rested.

I haven’t been out. I’ve been bottling up my youth.                              

 And to break the hiatus, I took to the spot where it seemed they were handing it out, in never-dry milk cartons: Thursday-night Izakaya. i.e. international school mecca. Strangely unable to stifle a yawn (in the face of barfly babies in Sean John), I squinted through the lowlight to make out if the reasonably aged men lining the back wall, by the stairs, were the young ilk’s drivers. (They were.) No dice, of course. And on account of my conversational choosiness, I couldn’t flutter my eyelashes at the manufactured-in-the-’90s jailbait, either. What is a floppy disk? Who is Dave Matthews? I could practically hear the sort of talk I’d get myself into. All this freshness was aging me.

I thought: Was this the only option left to thee? A cougar at 23? And after that quizzical, Dr. Seussian moment, I wiped my eyes dry and decided to seriously embark on a longtime dream of mine: The Year of Living Domestically.

Baby slings have never looked sexier on Cam Gigandet.

In line with this mythical pet project, I imagined that I’d have more time to do a number of down-home activities heretofore alien to post-college, parteh-parteh me: Curl up with a good book (very different from: a good booking), lie in bed with DVDs on, chill with no makeup on. Take up cross-stitch. Patch up my cutouts. Basically, go where I have never gone before… In my case, below the knee?

Whatever the lower limit, or the higher purpose, this cocooning fit has, naturally, altered my tastes.

Having just found a satisfactory term for the male cougar (i.e. manther), as well as a pitiable enough awareness campaign to go with it (Save The Manther), here I was constructing its taxonomy by homing in on a particular strain of its salt-and-pepper species: the DILF. The Dad I’d Like To Futuresexlovesounds, as JT might euphemize. I’m not sure if I’m at liberty to spell out that last, virile verb. But what I can say is that the attraction, at this point, is towards the attached: the married man, the foxy father — beacons of stability in these transactional times.

The appeal lies in the subliminal message of responsibility. Having a wife and three kids makes you seem mature, and committed. Ironically, the guy you’d want to have your babies with, already has babies of his own.

As such, this makes it very different from the baby daddy. The subtext, in this case, is the total opposite of maturity. Kids are no longer the cute, cuddly indications of commitment that a woman might coo over. They’re just… issues. So, contrary to popular belief, K-Fed is not a DILF. A man with five firstborns is not a DILF. To be a true DILF, you must have that balance between danger and domesticity. The following is an informal manual, which you may or may not cut out and tuck into the window shade of your minivan:

We just love that David Beckham is a hands-on dad.

Clothes make the man.

Please. Shop at The Gap. Current head designer Patrick Robinson has tweaked the classics just so that a certain sort of sexiness oozes from the label’s heritage-hewn pieces. I guess there’s something about looking like a classed-up lumberjack that just spells: “I’m willing to provide. In fact, I’m able to.” I suggest teaming that chambray polo or papa plaid with khakis that give just a bit of a slouch round the ankles, all the better to be tucked nonchalantly into battered chukkas, or desert boots, or something equally ankle-grazing. Can you say workingman?

Pick ‘em up.

Roll up to soccer practice or cheer camp in a multi-purpose vehicle. That means a minivan with bench — not pilot — seating (so you can drop off the whole team, if you have to), a roof rack for the kid’s sporting equipment, full child-lock controls, and, let’s not forget—the extra cup holders. Lay off the sportscar, or the Hummer truck. Make the down on an FUV.

Work it out.

This is the danger part. Adherence to all the other tips will have been in vain if you are unable to drop and give 50. The key result area, if your trainer asks, would have to be the arms. Good abs and non-scrawny legs are great, too, but strong arms instantly communicate an ability to carry. Your four-year-old, that piece of furniture, the weight of the world… Women just want a porter. And please, don’t cancel it all out with a beer belly. Ask your trainer for the daddy workout today!

Do the groceries.

I wish there was a Whole Foods in Manila. That way, there’d be a place for shake-guzzling model types, and, as is the focus of this article—diet-conscious DILFs. And we’re not just talking about personal diets here. We’re talking about family nutrition. A man who’s able to forgo his ale for his children’s kale is a selfless man — one who can think beyond what benefits himself, and make solid decisions. A role model, actually. The beer bum at the college kegger is so 2009. On the subject of family values, there are also other DILF-friendly venues worth checking out: the village park, the local pre-school… If I were to be irreverent about it (because I haven’t yet; I’m just getting started), I’ll see you in church!

Baby, it’s Hugh! Hugh Jackman makes a splash on the beach with his son.

If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

A baby in a sack, a toddler on your back—the easiest indication of fatherhood is, quite naturally, the offspring. This is also a good way to gauge the quality of a DILF’s genes, assuming that every woman just wants to procreate (contrasted, sadly, with the stereotype that every male just wants to mate). Up to a certain point, I guess it’s true. Women do like to dream up father figures.

In grade school, we’d scribble our first names with our crush’s last. We’d then think up baby names that would sound good at roll call — at which point, we’d imagine that our future daughter’s face would be buried in her notebook, wistfully doing the same thing. That bubble has burst, though. Cause truthfully, we could all just go online. Pull up a face-mash app, and experiment away… This is especially true if you find yourself pining for a DILF. In which case: Admire from afar. Don’t ever let the dream go bad. Let the DILF wave hello, as he mows the (actual) lawn.

The whole allure is that he can’t be had.