So, after three years and more of this tumultuous on again, off again relationship, I have found myself a single gal. Am I ready to start dating again? Most likely not, but the best cure for an old love is a new one, and Dr. Phil talks about earning your way out of relationships, and I certainly did that with this one. Let my therapist (and my sister, who seems to take an unhealthy amount of interest in whose beds my boots are under) worry about that. You jump off then you build wings, or some optimistic bullshit like that, ala Ray Bradbury.
Great guy, gonna love him til I die, but sayonara, baby. Vaya con dios, see ya on the other side.
An interesting thing about the universe is how when you are open to things, things come to you. Case in point- I woke up one morning with a wild hair and The Wheel of Fortune, and I decided it was time for me to actually do something about wanting to be in a relationship. In the next three weeks, I went on dates with six different men. Two of them I actively sought out by placing an ad on a questionable website. 250 distinct emails later (minus the 10% for spam one of the dates said I had to give), not a single cock pic, and I had it narrowed down to two. A cock pic might have helped, guys. The other four were happenstance, random chance, a matter of timing, I guess, and you coulda knocked me over with a feather. I would not have said there were even six single men in Denver, let alone six who would be interested in me, and me in them. More to come, I am sure, but that’s letting the carriage run right over the horse and not really here nor there, for now.
Some funny shit has happened to me in the past few weeks, and if I don’t save it for posterity, I will regret it later. So, I announce- The Blue Dress Diaries.
Original name? Not so much. I’m okay with that.
I have a great blue dress. It’s cerulean, to be exact, a wrap dress that shows off my good bits and goes far in forgiving my worst. The color is beautiful on summer skin, and my Mohican blood gives me that all year long. It also gives me a propensity to diabetes and alcoholism, so let me take what pleasure I can from it. It’s all occasion, dressy enough if a first date springs for a nice dinner, but casual enough to not be out of place for afternoon coffee. Two dates in, it dawned on me that instead of freaking out about what to wear, I could ease my anxiety a great deal by just wearing the same gorgeous dress on every first date I have til I’ve had my last, a fat bulge bursts out of it, or it falls apart. I’m hoping one of those happens before the others, because getting fat(ter) is not gonna help my chances any, and I don’t want it to be long enough for the thing to become rags. I don’t think there are batteries enough in the world.
And because I’m me, and on the theory that I might be a writer, and if I am not letting it all hang out all over the place it festers and rots in my brain, I decided to write about it all.
I have to say, I do not think a woman needs a man to be complete, nor do I feel incomplete without one. I also think, though, that it is complete bullshit, and a great disservice to single people of both genders, that our society teaches that admitting you would rather be with someone than not makes you weak, or unfulfilled, or somehow less of a person. I am strong, with a very full life, which I mostly love, at least today, and I have great people in it.
Eventually, though, I would like to have (another) husband, and I am not going to feel bad about that just because those bitches fucked their way across New York City for all those years. And PS, they all ended up married, or in a monogamous long term relationship, at least. I’m a great wife. I cook like mutha’ fuckin’ riot, I’m not jealous or possessive, would prefer to have sex twice a day, and while I like to snuggle and be affectionate, I feel no need to be attached to my man’s hip. I have a metric ton of issues, too, but I believe love covers a multitude of sins. I don’t think it’s wrong to want to love someone, to want them to love you back.
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