A word of advice: Don’t Google heartthrobs of yesteryear

A lot has changed since I was a teenybopper pining after chisel-cheeked, square-jawed pretty boys. For one, today’s social media have made those famous guys more accessible, their lives and loves open to groupies with a few taps of the keys. What has not changed — what, I suspect, will remain well into the future — is that adolescent yearning for the impossible and the unreciprocated.

Heartthrobs, the kind whose photos you pin on your walls, are still going strong. I know this because some of my older granddaughters have taped posters of swoon-worthy idols in their bedrooms, something that came as a surprise when I stumbled on this monumental discovery. I thought that rite of the tween and teen years had succumbed to more expedient methods of unrequited adoration, but once again reality has proven the extent of my cluelessness.

On the subject of cluelessness: I don’t recognize most of the current hotties. I won’t admit to this, of course. I have to keep up my reputation with the people I love most: the people who are into glitter nail polish, athleisure outfits, and vinyl records paired with old-time turntables. In fact, I am so cool, so rad, so lit and legit that I don’t even comment on the two dimensional replica of Whatever-His-Name. I dare not speak for fear of drawing attention to my naivete.

Nevertheless, I believe that the subject of cute boys, the pinups of our youth, deserve some thought. Tastes change and hairstyles come and go, but our early infatuations often serve as mirrors into our generation. All you have to do is travel back in time to peek at the old crushes that made our hearts thunder and our imaginations run wild. I don’t understand why no one has officially studied this phenomenon.

The topic of heartthrobs came up on a group chat several days ago, when one of the women, a television reporter now retired from a national network, commented on the death of David McCallum, the actor who played secret agent Ilya Kuryakin in the 1960s TV series “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and more recently Ducky in “NCIS.” The chat is composed of successful professionals, some in retirement, some still in the trenches, united by one common experience: early in our careers we worked together at a time when Latino journalists in general, and women specifically, were rare in newsrooms.

My former colleague admitted to having a thing for McCallum back in the day. That opened the floodgates to confessions. One admitted to crushing on Davy Jones of The Monkees. Donny Osmond was a pinup for another friend who wrote, without a hint of embarrassment, that she actually got to touch Donny’s leg when the singer danced on her table during a Las Vegas show 10 years ago. “He was wearing Spanx,” she noted.

Me, I chimed in with David Cassidy, better known as Keith Partridge from “The Partridge Family.”

After the text thread moved on to more serious subjects — vaccines for the older set and management changes at a renowned restaurant — I remained stuck on the intriguing idea of male pinups of yesteryear. My mother, I remembered, thought Tony Curtis was a dreamboat, and she religiously watched Richard Chamberlain in the title role of “Dr. Kildare,” though she didn’t understand English well enough to follow the dialogue. Apparently, a pretty face is a pretty face no matter the language.

That got me wondering what had happened to the dreamboats of our past, and I did as one is wont to do in the 21st century: I Googled them. I wish I hadn’t. I would have preferred to preserve them in the formaldehyde of memory. Those who hadn’t died had grown old like the rest of us, with wrinkles and age spots and droopy eyelids.

So, I’ve decided it’s best to remember my heartthrobs as they once were, as I once was — young and foolish and full of hope, a sucker for blue eyes and a good smile.

Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.