I was reading about Hugh Hefner's marriage to Crystal, a young woman, sixty years his junior, and happened to glance over at my eight year-old grandson who was adding to the collection of scars on my once expensive coffee table. I was about to scream at him, or something close to it, when suddenly math rolled into my brain. I started to do the arithmetic. He's almost eight; I'm sixty-two which means that I could be in the process of training a man who might one day qualify to be my spouse.

Why not, I thought, as I witnessed yet another gouge on a piece of oak that was over-evaluated by the retailer. Hefner was a man who had spent his lifetime in the sex trade. If he wanted firm flesh to remind him of his age, as far as I was concerned, it was a consensual agreement.

But then I started thinking about sex and the influence Playboy had on my life; the role models that boys used to relieve their loneliness and teenage girls could never expect to compete with. I thought about the hundreds, if not thousands of young women who only needed to disrobe in order to change their status and gain notoriety in life and in that moment I decided, that's it, I'm ready to be a bunny.

Now I can't speak for the young women, or for Crystal, for that matter, who decided that having men leave water marks on their centre fold, staples be damned, was fine, but I have to admit that I rolled up all that self-respect and fifty-hour work weeks and smoked the damn joint only to discover there was no high.

I turned on the television and flicked the channel to Square Pants or Miss Muffet lost her Tuffet... or something like that. Armed with popcorn and caffeine laden soda, I paused long enough to ensure my grandson was suitably drugged and preoccupied before going into my sanctuary of lost dreams.

I rummaged around, shifting bloomers and woollen tights looking for the wispy undergarments of my youth, certain that my hoarding instincts would find something suitable for my pictorial debut, but I found nothing. I decided that at my age, and taking smug satisfaction from knowing I was twenty-four years younger than Hef, I decided to stop fooling myself, and just get naked.

I damn near puked, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Once divested of earthly camouflage, I nonetheless stopped for a moment to address the throne and offer my allegiance. Then came the moment of truth, the reveal and proudly with head held high, I faced the mirror. What are those, I asked as I tried to wrestle the mammary glands off the floor?

"Grandma, can I have a cookie?"

As many as you want, I muttered, then answered responsibly, "You can have two, but no more."

Why does he need to know they are made with oatmeal and flax seed oil?

The fact they taste good is all that matters to a boy as I'm sure that that's all that matters to Hugh Hefner.

I pulled on a track suit and went back downstairs, my dalliance with ancient boobs and archaic ideas diluted by facts. I put on my glasses and read the rest of the story about the wedding. Damn, I said, but realizing I swore out loud, after all those years, the empire, the asshole only has forty-three million?

"Grandma, you said a bad word."

Get over it, kid, I thought. One day if you set your sights high enough, you too could be married to a witch/bitch just like me.