I was watching the Super Bowl halftime show minding my own perimenopausal business, when suddenly… Ricky Martin. Like every other mid-40ish woman watching, we all yelled, “Ricky Martin!” and started hip thrusting like we didn’t just take ibuprofen for sitting wrong. A week later and I’m still sore. If your first reaction was nostalgia instead of, “Who?” then congratulations, your ovaries have officially filed for retirement. Just admit it, if you were excited about Ricky Martin, then most likely, you owned a butterfly clip collection, and burned CDs labeled “Summer Mix ‘98.” Now, you look forward to naps, and probably say, “I can’t drink like I used to.”
My teen daughter, who watched the halftime show with me, said, “Is that Bad Bunny’s dad or something?” Are you kidding me right now, kid? “That man was my Latin awakening in 1999.” Ricky Martin on the Super Bowl stage is less “halftime entertainment” and more “live demonstration of collagen maintenance.” He looks incredible. Suspiciously incredible. Like he bathes in coconut oil and unresolved bisexual panic from 1998. Meanwhile, I’m pulling a hamstring adjusting my heating pad. And the audacity of it all? He moved like he didn’t live through dial-up internet for crying out loud. Like he never had to text someone back on a Nokia phone. That wasn’t a halftime show - that was targeted harassment for anyone who grunts when they stand up.
I guess it means the real threat isn’t aging so much, but that somewhere deep inside, I still believe I can wear low-rise jeans and crop tops again. I can’t. And neither can you. But for three minutes on that stage, we ALL did!
Now excuse me while I stretch before getting off this couch like I’m defusing a bomb.