That's It! I'm Joining Weight Watchers, A Support Group & A Cult!

It’s humid out. This is the kind of weather where I imagine what it would feel like to live in the currents of a giant’s hot, steamy breath—after   consuming a gargantuan sandwich. In other words: it’s gross outside.

I think, truly, I must have some spiritual connection to the weather. On sunny, cool days I’m generally intelligent and well-adjusted. On sunny, hot days I’m a little hyper and I tend to expose my cleavage on a whim. On cold days, I’m cuddly and contemplative. Today, it being gross outside and all, I’m just plain moody.

If I played a role in Snow White and the Eight Dwarves I’d be…oh…Moody Dame. (Not quite a bitch, you see, just moody.) And when I’m moody, I obsess. Endlessly. Over everything in my life. Harrumph.

(I’m starting to annoy myself so I’m going to take a break and come back to this. Maybe I’ll have a story to tell and stop being so whiny.)

TAKE #2

This morning, I put on my yoga pants and looked at my legs and was faced with the horror that they looked, indeed, like sausage stuffed in a casing. Why? Why have I let myself get this way? And why am I eating peanut butter chocolate pie while I write this?

TAKE #3

Starting over again.

Recent stresses. My ex got married on July 3^rd: three days after my 37^th birthday, one day before the 4^th of July. He picked up the kids after his 20 mile run and then Biff and I sat quietly in the house. I started to go insane. I called my sister and she invited us over. Sweet relief. So Biff and I travelled to Belding and then went down to the beach where my sis immediately hitched us a ride on a party pontoon boat. We spent the next five hours drinking, swimming, and laughing. I had to be home at 8PM to pick up the kids. P and his new wife were dropping them off so they could catch a flight to Hawaii for their honeymoon. (Need I say that my ex and I never went on a honeymoon? He said it was too expensive.)

It turned out to be a great day. Biff and I laughed. He rubbed my back in front of people. Kissed me. My sis and I were cracking each other up. And there was a little bell inside me ringing that my ex was now remarried. Why did it sadden me so when I don’t feel any emotion for him? Biff said maybe I’m jealous that he’s moved on. It isn’t that though. Really. I’m jealous because I want to be married and I want a honeymoon and I want a man who loves me and my kids, loves me so much he can’t fathom NOT being married to me. Then I look at Biff and categorize every comment he’s made about looking for work outside of Michigan, that there’s nothing keeping him here, how he’s not really looking for an apartment because he could end up anywhere, and I think hmmmm. How much does he feel for me? Am I just a convenience? And I think maybe it’s just a matter of time before he’s out the door.

My sis says there’s no way to know if someone is going to break your heart. You just have to enjoy your time with them. But how can you do that when you don’t trust them? My ex met a woman, fell in love with her, asked her to marry him. It was easy. And now they have that comfort of being a couple, of living a shared life. Me? I’m still hobbling along, legs of sausage.

TAKE #4

I remind myself that some people like sausage. Especially Germans. And, well, foodies.

Adventures with my Sister: Online Dating

I have to say I’m really glad it’s a new year. When you think about it, there are several opportunities for new starts throughout the year, which is good, because most of us need them.

One of my new starts is The Return to the World of Dating. (Please reread that sentence with a booming-announcer-scary voice.) I’ve dabbled here and there since splitting with my ex: the man I wanted to love who wanted to love someone else, the zen Beautiful Man (really) who broke a date because “I’m going on a week long cleansing with my guru, but I’ll let you know when I get back”.  Hmmm. Nice.

And now, well, now I’ve decided that I’m ready to date for real. No more practice. I’m ready to date. And am just waiting for my phone to ring.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Feckers.

No ringing. Looks like I’ll have to do this on my own.

Actually, (excuse tense changes here) my sister decided to help me out. “The next guy you meet needs my approval,” she said. I laughed. “No. Seriously. I want to meet him, and if he’s not attractive and smart and funny, he’s out of there. I’m kicking him to the curb for you.” She was serious. She could do it.

On Tuesday, she came over to help me out. “We’re going to go on those dating sites, I’ll look at the pictures and tell you who you should date.”

“Okay,” I said.

She came over bearing wine and sausage and cheese. (You’ve got to love a sister who brings sausage. There’s just something cool about that.) I booted up my computer, logged into the site and showed her the pictures of men I’ve been emailing. First one popped up, Heidi took one look at it and said, “Hehhhhhlllll nooooooo.”

“Why? He’s nice.”

“No.”

“He’s really smart.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because his eyes are so small he could use dental floss for a blindfold.”

I looked at the guy again. My sister was right. Now, how could I go on a date with a man who I would envision wrapping in dental floss?

“Okay,” I said. “Good call. What about this one?” I showed her a picture of an attractive guy and began to read his profile out loud.

Heidi stopped me. “Whoah! Whoah!! No. Would it hurt for him to smile or something? And look, he says he’s in nursing. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“It means he’s can dismember someone no problem. He’s been trained. Next!”

I didn’t mention to Heidi that she’s in nursing and she could dismember people. We clicked on the next one. And the next.

“Why don’t you just date a woman?” she asked.

“I would. I’m open to that actually, but I can’t seem to meet anyone.”

“There’s a chick right there!!” she pointed. Actually, there was. Did the woman mean to be listed with the men? Or was she transgendered? Hmmm. I clicked on the next one.

“Stop!! Stop!! I think I have an erection,” Heidi said.

We looked. Cute, nice smile, big blue eyes. Profile was spelled correctly. “I don’t understand,” I said. “He says he’s an engineer and he manages work sites. What does that mean?”

“Oh, honey, that means he’s blue collar mixed with white collar. Blue collar men, let me tell you, HOT. It doesn’t bother me at all that he’s 42 and lives with his parents.”

“No? It bothers me a little.”

“No. He’s saving for a house. Contact him.”

“He’s already contacted me.”

“Well, let’s read it!!”

That’s how the night went. Us, laughing, drinking, picking out men. It wasn’t like ordering a pizza as I think I said in “Easy Does It”. It was more like trying on jeans. Which one is a good fit? You’ve got to see a pair that looks cute enough to try on, but every pair fits differently, until you find the one that just hugs your ass like a….Hmmm. Better stop that extended metaphor. And stop thoughts like Ass Hugging. Thoughts like that could cause me to spontaneously combust.

If you have any advice for me, let me know. If my history with blundering is any indication on how dating is going to work for me…well…let’s just say this is going to be interesting.