[dropcap]M[/dropcap]emorial Day weekend. The living room was full of nephews and friends. Five testosterone-machines filled the den, splayed on couches. Together they discussed vital matters of boyhood. Things like: who would win a fistfight between Batman and Spiderman, which gun is optimal for combat situations, and which boy has, in truth, eaten the most macaroni and cheese in one sitting without messing himself.The award went to me on that one.

During the height of the repartee, the room fell silent. Each boy’s attention became glued to the television. Their eyes, the size of silver dollars. I looked at the television. A buxom brunette, wearing a strand of dental floss, waltzed across the screen.

No boy said a word.

When the commercial was over, the den was as quiet as a sanctuary. Reverent. No one was able to utter a thing of Batman or mac and cheese.

“Boys,” I said. “You can’t pay attention to advertisements like that.”

“What do you mean Uncle Sean?”

“I mean, real women don’t look like that.”

One boy pointed at the television. “She looked real.”

The rest of the boys heartily agreed.

“Sorry,” I said. “She’s as fake as pro wrestling.”

“Uncle Sean, fake girls need love too.”

I smacked my forehead. “Real women have curves. Full hips, normal waists, and real hearts. For crying out loud, real girls eat pizza. Those half naked things are made of plastic.”

“Hey!” my nephew exclaimed. “You’re only saying that because Aunt Jamie is standing right behind you.”