I moved into a new apartment last weekend. Considering my moving record, anyone who has known me for, oh say, five minutes knows that I am habitual. Each and every living situation offers a unique experience and sometimes even gnashing of teeth, but apartment living will be reserved as the subject for another article. This particular move, however, was quite interesting and warrants discussion now. Why? Because there's a handsome, age-appropriate man living below me!

The poor guy doesn't even know how his life has just changed.

After completing a four hour move and wearing sloppy jeans, a stained white t-shirt, bright pink crocs, no make-up and hair that clearly flaunted my hard work and angst that morning, two of my friends and I set out to buy more stuff for my next move. Of course, who comes out of the apartment below me, but a rather attractive man with what I will guess is his teenage son, which of course, triggered giggles (women never grow up in the giggle department), elbow nudges and sly looks. At this point, I was thinking how grateful I was not to be wearing my driving glasses - the ones designed for distance as opposed to the "you're officially old" reading glasses. That would not be alluring at all and definitely wouldn't go with the ensemble ala sweaty move I was sporting. I really couldn't get a good look at him and getting my glasses out of my purse, slipping them on my face and peering in his direction would have been tacky not to mention obvious. My partners in crime assured me that he was, indeed, gorgeous, which, by a matter of course, started the "Why do I always run into nice-looking men when I look like this!" rant.

Upon sealing ourselves in the privacy of the car, I asked if they checked out his ring finger. They failed me. I guess the not so desperate single women don't have their wedding ring radar on autopilot at all times. A lot of good that does me! But, I love them anyway, so we went on our merry way to buy good food, lots of wine and chick flicks.

As we lounged amongst the boxes in my living room christening my new place, the topic of conversation turned back to the gorgeous man downstairs. Let me remind you that there was wine, which resulted in loud conversation and in turn went quite well with the thin walls. As the wine poured, so did the dirty cliché comments about how I finally had a man under me and what I could do to him and all the other lovely, classy things gossipy women spew after watching one of those unrealistic romance movies where the man is perfect and the woman always gets swept off her feet regardless of the fact that she made a complete fool of herself every time she saw him yeah-right-get-real-who-writes-this-stuff chick flicks. Please ...nobody's cynical here.

The next day, during a phone conversation with one of the above-mentioned friends who will remain nameless to protect the not so innocent (bless her!), we discussed the fact that the handsome man downstairs probably heard everything we said.

Oh, hell!

Then we remembered that men's egos are the polar opposite of female egos and our worry halted rather quickly. Everyone knows what happened downstairs during our buzzed stupor about this man. He pressed his ear as close as possible to the vent, puffed his chest, walked away with a smile and muttered, "Yeah, they want me." He then called his friends and boasted about how three stunning women who lived upstairs thought he was hot and wanted him ... bad.

Had it been reversed, and three men were talking about the sexy woman downstairs, she'd call her friend and go from slightly complimented, to calling them royal pigs to freaking out about how the new neighbor is surely a creepy stalker to wondering if he'll ask her out all in the span of 35 seconds.

Now ladies, no offense intended, but if we face the truth, we'd all admit that we rationalize and analyze like nobody's business. Guilty as charged! Hell, I'm a pro.

Sometimes, I wish I had the male ego. I applaud men for their unwavering confidence that stops just shy of arrogance. I applaud all women who have figured it out for themselves. In an effort to give fairness a chance, I'm going to attempt to be simply confident vs. incessantly going on and on and on about our female woes. Here goes a good old-fashioned college try ...

I am woman, hear me roar: "Yeah, I'm hot, they want me!"

Anybody buying this? Kinda boring, uh.