Winning the Lottery

Not unlike Gretchen Rubin's 'Happiness Project', this is a Singleness Project. Basically, an attempt to live as happy and fulfilled a life as possible, while flying solo.

It feels like Christmas morning and I’ve won the lottery, all at the same time.

In fact, I could barely sleep last night because I felt so happy and excited; to be true, I can’t even remember a recent occasion when I’ve felt this way. Because let’s be honest, even Christmas morning doesn’t feel much like Christmas morning anymore, well not the way it did when I was eight anyway.

It turns out I’m in love. For real.

I’m in love with my cheeseburger.

So here’s the story:

A couple of weeks ago, my burger and I were hanging out, catching a TIFF movie. The subject came up that I had gone out with some single girlfriends the week before and had a bit of a crazy night. Then he asked if I’d met anyone. I told him I sort of did and that I was going on a date with this guy. Anyway, to make a long story short, he had a lot of questions about it and although he said he didn’t care, it kind of came across that he did.  I was confused and a little upset, but didn’t know what else to do about the situation but to go ahead with the date. I knew I had feelings for my burger but he was adamant and clear with me that he wanted nothing more than a casual relationship.

On the date I had a hard time concentrating on enjoying my time with this guy. I couldn’t help but compare him to my burger, feeling that I’d rather just be hanging out with him. We always have fun, it’s easy, he makes me feel good.

The following weekend my burger and I were catching a couple of midday festival films, having a good time together as we usually do, when he brought up the subject of my date over lunch.

“Did you have a good time? Are you going to see him again?” he asked over lunch.

I don’t know, I said. I don’t really feel comfortable talking about this with you.

“Why not? We’re friends.” He replied.

Then I broke down in tears. I was feeling particularly emotional that day and we’d just seen quite an emotional and touching flick about love. I was feeling sad and sorry for myself that he didn’t feel that way about me and never would and wondered if I would ever find that for myself.

“The thing is,” I told him. “I don’t want to date someone else. I want to date you. I want to be with you and I want you to be my boyfriend. I have feelings for you!”

He shook his head feeling frustrated and asked why we always have to have the same conversation over and over again. He told me he didn’t want the same things as me, he didn’t want to date me or be in a relationship with me.

I continued to tear up quietly, hoping the waitress wouldn’t notice and wiping my eyes with a napkin. “The problem is," I said. "I’m in love with you.”

His reaction wasn’t good, which just made me more upset. I think he felt uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say. So then I told him, for once and for all, (although we had tried this a few times before and it never seemed to stick) that I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. I told him that it hadn’t been my intention to grow such strong feelings for him and I know I had said it was casual from the beginning, but this is how I felt and it’s becoming too difficult for me knowing that the feelings would never be reciprocated.

We were both a little sad. He seemed disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to hang out anymore. But I tried to just buck up and salvage the rest of our fun day together. I told him we should just make the best of the day and have a good time, since it would be our last.

Neither of us felt good about this but we carried on anyway.

It all fell apart though, when he continued to ask questions about the other guy and continued to tell me that he didn’t care if I dated someone else and that I should date someone else and it’s totally cool with him.

Then I lashed out. I was so upset that he didn’t care a bit when I was feeling totally in love with him and devastated. I threw something at him that was very hurtful and my intention was to hurt.

We had a big blow out, (well, not the screaming and yelling kind because I don’t think that’s how either of us roll) right in the middle of the food court at Yonge and Dundas AMC. We were biding our time before our next movie and couldn’t even look at eachother we were both so upset.

It ended with us both saying that we could never see eachother again; we were both disappointed in eachother and realized that there was no other option but bring it all to a sad and sorry end.

We skipped out on the movie. I was too upset to sit through it.

We barely said goodbye and my last words to him were: “Don’t contact me. Ever.”

He said no problem and walked away.

Then I got on the subway and cried under my sunglasses all the way home.

When I got home I called my mom and cried some more.

Then I cried some more and went to bed at 8:00 on a Saturday night.

Well that doesn’t sound like Christmas morning!! You’re probably saying to yourself by this point.

But Here’s Part Two:

After two weeks of feeling angry and upset, knowing we would never speak to or see eachother again, I got a call. It was 3:00 on Sunday afternoon and I was up to my hairy armpits in reports for work and laundry, sitting on my couch in old leggings and a sweater, drinking tea, my two cats piled on top of me for warmth and comfort.

Actually, funny story to insert here.

Just a few days ago I was telling my students about myself and explaining to them that I had two cats. They asked all about my cats and then asked me if I lived with my mom. No, I said. Do you have a husband? No, I answered. So you live by yourself? Yes, yes I do.

“Well aren’t you scared?” one of them asked.

“No, you get used to it,” I said.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” I replied, maybe a little less convincingly.

Then Kyle, with his sweet little face and Trinidadian accent said, “Ms Young, my sister told me that usually people who don’t have husbands or boyfriends, they have cats.”

I paused and then said, “Yes. Yes it’s true Kyle.”

Anyway, back to the story.

I was sitting with my cats piled on top of me, working away and kind of feeling sorry for myself when my phone started to ring. It was my cheeseburger. And although I had told him: Don’t. Contact me. Ever., I picked up the phone right away.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Can I come over? I want to talk to you in person.”

Sure, no problem I told him. Feeling a bit tired and worn out about the whole situation.

I knew exactly what he was going to say.

He felt bad that things had ended the way they did. He didn’t want things to be weird between us. We have mutual friends that we have to think about. He hoped we could be friends and put this behind us.

Check. Check. Check.

I thought about how I would respond.

“Yes, I agree. Yes, no hard feelings. I don’t want things to be weird either. I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for our friends. I know we both care about eachother and didn’t really mean the things we had said.”

Then he would be off and I’d be alone with my cats again.

But this is what he said:

“I’m in love with you. I want to be with you. I want to be your boyfriend. I missed you so much and I want us to be together.”

I think I’m still in shock.

But happy shock. Like Christmas morning when you’re eight shock.

Then after another good round of what we do best, we cuddled. He even held my hands and kissed me on my ears.

Then he said, “What happens to the Singleness Project now?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“It becomes the Coupleness Project?”

We high-fived and had a good laugh.

 

 

 

 

My Cheeseburger: Why Chicks can't have Sex like Dudes

Not unlike Gretchen Rubin's 'Happiness Project', this is a Singleness Project. Basically, an attempt to live as happy and fulfilled a life as possible, while flying solo.

 

Sometimes I seem to forget the original intent of this blog, to live as happy and fulfilling a life as possible while flying solo. In other words, prove that it’s not so bad being single.

Thing is, I think I’m cheating a little bit because I do have a little somethin’ somethin’ on the side.

That’s right folks an FWB.

And while that doesn’t mean I’m not single, it does make my singleness project a little easier to hack.

I guess we’ve sort of been eachothers’ fallback person for a number of years. We tend to get in touch when previous relationships have ended and for the most part there are no strings attached – or at least that’s what we tell ourselves and eachother.

Most importantly, the chemistry and physical attraction are strong in addition to the fact that we care about one another and it’s a safe outlet because of the comfort level after knowing eachother for so many years.

Really, it’s an ideal situation.

But as you might imagine, me being a girl and all, sometimes the emotional part is a little tricky. We’ve discussed many times, and at length, the parameters of our relationship: we’re friends, we care about one another, and we have sex. There is no ‘relationshippy’ part to this; in fact, we often high-five one another after a particularly successful session and then share a good laugh. There’s not really any cuddling or hand-holding and certainly no evening telephone chats about one anothers’ day. The only exception to the ‘not relationship’ rule is that we do enjoy eachothers’ company enough to go out to dinners or movies together sometimes as foreplay.

What starts to make it a little tricky is that for a girl, or woman (which is I guess how I should refer to myself) it’s not the sex that makes a connection fulfilling. Of course sex is fun and pleasurable and I enjoy it every time, but then it leaves me wanting more and I don’t mean more sex.

I can go a week or two without talking to or hearing from him, but then as soon as we’ve been together again physically, all these emotions start to well up inside dagnammit.

It’s been an interesting social experiment actually.

One evening I tried to explain this strange phenomenon to him that I feel as normal and fine as can be when we’re hanging out ‘pre-sex’ not thinking about anything besides our friendly chit chat and conversation, then BAM! As soon as we’ve done the deed, the hormones kick in and all I want to do is hold hands and nuzzle up to him, keeping him close and talking about feelings.

Meanwhile, his post-coital mood is almost the exact opposite.

He’s more likely to be nuzzley and affectionate beforehand, the hormones building as he anticipates what’s coming next. Then BAM! When he’s done, he’s done. That’s where the high five comes in.

Why can’t chicks just have sex like dudes? It would really make life so much simpler. It’s just absolutely unfair that women have to suffer through having ‘feelings’ connected with the sex.

Imagine if we had to have feelings about eating cheeseburgers? If we knew that the cheeseburger would taste really great but when it was gone we would miss it and feel just a little lost without it for a couple of days? But what are we supposed to do, stop eating cheeseburgers?

The problem with having the cheeseburger, is that instead of feeling full and satisfied afterwards, a chick starts to long for not just the burger, but a sandwich with all the toppings to boot.

I wonder if there’s a guy out there who would agree to do the hand-holding, pillow talk and picnics in the park once I’m done having great sex with my FWB?

 

Sperm v.s. Egg

As men and women age, life is completely unfairly weighted in favour of the sperm-bearers.

Sperm, you see, don’t die off at quite the same alarming rate as a woman’s eggs after the age of 35. This leaves women at a severe disadvantage when it comes to finding a mate, finding love, and procreating as we approach our expiry date.
This is unfortunate because women (even more so than men in my opinion) who have taken care of themselves, not had too much sun or gained a bunch of age weight, are even more attractive than ever in their mid-to- late thirties. But they’re no longer turning heads the way they used to because they’re approaching the end of their baby-making years.
We've figured out how to dress in a way that flatters the figure rather than creating unnecessary muffin tops with trendy jeans that don’t fit, or squeezing into camel-toe shorts that accentuate the butt-crease cellulite that every woman loathes. We’ve learned to eat better and take care of ourselves so that our skin glows, our teeth sparkle, our hair shines and our eyebrows aren’t battling the shadow for space on our lids. We have money to spend on clothes, hair treatments and our perfectly pedicured toes. And our confidence is higher than ever: we feel more comfortable with our bodies both in the sack and on the beach because to be honest, we just don’t give a shit anymore. Life is meant to be enjoyed. We are quite literally at our prime but men our age, or a little bit older, run from us like they’ve seen a ghost.

Why? The woman is in her final years or even months of possibly ever becoming a mother. Of course there’s desperation on her face!  It’s unavoidable.
And of course the men are bound to run away. If they’ve managed to avoid baby-making and marriage thus far, they certainly don’t want to be hooking up with someone who is likely to force either upon them within the next four months.

But imagine if this battle were more evenly weighted. Imagine if men stopped producing viable sperm after the age of 37. Both sides would be forced to hurry up and ‘lock it down’.

We would have no choice.
What 26-year-old woman would want to date a 40-year-old man with a great smile but no more swimmers?

I will now fantasize about the conversation reversal possibilities:

Tom: I think you’re really great Angie, in fact, I love you, but I really want to have a baby.

Angie: I think you’re really great too Tom, but I’m just not ready for that yet. I know you’re 37 and your sperm only have a few months left, but I have a few good years in me yet.  Sorry honey. Maybe you should try to find someone who’s more your own age.

At a certain point Tom, who’s always been attractive, charming and appealing to the opposite sex, finds himself at a loss because women are no longer interested in him. They’re turned off by his desperation to have children and they know that his reproductive value is rapidly declining.
He is no longer useful as a mate.

Take this scenario for men and multiply it by about 10 for women.
Women’s bodies are made to be baby carriers. Making, carrying and caring for babies is a large portion of our role, historically, on this earth. We’re not the hunter/gatherers; we give birth to and care for the babies.
So what’s a girl to do when that’s no longer her point?

Demi Moore should have known that she would run out of luck with Ashton a few years ago simply because of her age. Eventually the young, swingin’ single man is going to want an offspring or two of his own and if the oven he’s with is not operational, he’ll find one that is.

Maybe it's wise for me to wait for my mid-to-late forties, after I've had the kid on my own, to re-enter the dating pool. Maybe by that time things will have levelled out and a sperm-bearer and an egg harvester will return to being a boy and a girl, just looking for someone to love..........

Que Sera Sera

I was feeling particularly sad for a single friend last night as she nearly broke down in tears explaining to me how lonely she felt.

She’s a successful, accomplished, intelligent and attractive 40-year-old woman, never been married and with no children.  All she’s wanted, desperately, her entire life, is someone she can love and who loves her back.
I understand her pain. I’ve felt that way before and it comes and goes.

It’s just this overwhelming feeling of how unfair it all is. You look at your friends, family members, people on the street, and they all seem to have someone to love and hold hands with; someone to grow old with.  Why not me? You ask yourself.

I told my friend that I can certainly empathize with her; I’ve been paddling along in the exact same boat for years. But then I told her that over the last few months, I’ve been able to make peace with it all to some extent.

“Yeah, you seem really happy,” she said. “Why?”

“Well, why not?” I responded.

I’ve spent many years blaming myself for being single: something’s wrong with me; I’m a failure; I made a colossal mistake when I broke up with so-and-so or threw in the towel with what’s-his-name, etc.  Whatever society might have to say about single women and why they are that way, I could beat myself up better in my own little noggin’!

But gradually, sometime over the past year after finally arriving at the other side of a terrible break up and dealing with the long, heart-wrenching process of my dad’s illness and subsequent death, I decided that I don’t feel like being part of the cast of Les Miserables anymore. It’s exhausting to be miserable all the time. And so, so boring.

Besides whether I’m miserable or content, whining all the time or just trucking happily along, will not make a difference in the final outcome of it all, so why not be happy?

I used to agree with my friend, thinking that it’s so unfair that some people meet the love of their lives and live happily ever after, while some of us remain single and destined to be alone. But as a really smart person once said and as we all well know in our heart of hearts: Life is not fair.

Is it fair that I have a good job that I enjoy, a nice place to live in, a loving family and dozens of wonderful friends while some toddler in Africa is starving to death and will likely never have to worry about the petty struggle to find a mate? No, not really.

It’s not really fair either that one of my most beautiful and sweet friends, married a very beautiful and lovely man, they had two beautiful and healthy children, became successful in two amazing careers which afford them many of life’s pleasures and they won cash for life. Yes, that’s right, cash for life. Sometimes you’ve just gotta shake your head in amazement and smile and say, “Wow, they’re really lucky.”

Nor is it fair that 12 unsuspecting people just hoping to enjoy a midnight showing of the latest installment in their favourite movie franchise ended up the butt of someone else’s sick joke or nightmare, shot up and killed before getting halfway through their popcorn.

None of it is fair. And so much of it is about chance and luck.

Of course, there are things you can do to increase your chances of luck in love, or luck in life, like getting out there, being friendly, outgoing, optimistic, working hard, taking care of yourself, and being open to new things and new people.

However, maybe it’s best to always carry around a healthy dose of ‘Que Sera, Sera’ because in the end there’s only so much you can do before luck and chance step in.

In the end, whatever will be will be so why waste your time being miserable?

Solo Traveler

The happiest thing I’ve discovered this year as a single is that traveling solo is not only manageable, but possibly even preferable.

Sometime in March, I made the decision that this would be the ‘summer of fun’ since last summer was certainly not that; in fact it was pretty much the opposite of that.

So after searching around the interweb for a few days, I booked a decently priced flight to Italy: Leaving July 6^th, returning July 20^th.

I had no idea what I would do there but ever since reading Eat, Prey, Love (I know, cheesy) two summers ago, I had dreamt of sitting on the Spanish Steps in Rome, eating gelato for breakfast and tucking into a perfectly cheesy, margherita pizza.

Never having traveled totally solo before, I booked a tour with Gadventures (formerly Gap adventures) that would find me situated directly under the Tuscan sun.

Since I would have to write a novel to get into all of the wonders that unfolded over my two weeks in Italy, I will keep it short saying that I came home 5lbs heavier from all of the pizza, pasta, gelato and buckets of fine Chianti that I consumed. But some of the highlights include: riding a bicycle through fields of glowing sunflowers; eating the best gelato I’ve ever tasted while wandering the streets of Florence; swimming daily in an aqua pool overlooking the rolling hills and quaint villages of Tuscany; cruising the bustling waterways of Venice on the city’s public transport boats; finding the perfect pair of Italian leather boots in a medieval Tuscan village; and watching a spectacular fireworks show in Venice’s San Marco square.

In addition to all of these wonders however, were the great new friends I met along the way and the freedom I felt being just on my own.

In the end, traveling solo, I realized I was not really alone at all.

On the eight days of my group tour I met 12 lovely people who kept me happy company through wine tastings, wanderings through cobblestone streets, pasta making, and cappuccino drinking.

Then I set off for Venice with a sweet couple I’d met on the tour and ironically, I think it was they who desired the company of another even more than me. The young twosome had been traveling around Europe already for 4-5 weeks and had another 5 weeks to go.  Although they seemed very much in love and happy with one another, the young girl admitted several times that it was nice to have someone else to talk to besides just one another for a while. We spent three happy days touring the streets and canals and simply marvelling over the sheer wonder of the place. I found I had to make a concerted effort to find time for myself and when I found it, I enjoyed it.

The final leg of my trip was spent at a Toronto friend’s family vacation home in Umbria where I again spent quiet mornings and hot afternoons soaking in a pool overlooking olive groves and grapevines, listening to the crowing of the neighbours’ roosters across the valley and sharing delicious meals with my hosts.

By the end of my 14 days in Italy, I had probably only spent two nights alone and found that I treasured those moments, mostly because I knew there were potentially hundreds of friends all around me at any given moment.

On my last night in Rome a young man on business from Milan sat at a table next to mine on the patio and soon started chatting, asking me where I was from and what I was doing in Rome. I was happy to meet him as he seemed to be a friendly and harmless enough guy, but after spending two weeks with so many new friends, I wanted my last night to be just for myself. I got the sense he would have continued the conversation throughout the evening but I already had my own plan in mind. I asked him the best way to get to Trasteverre, a part of town I had yet to explore, thanked him for his help and went on my way.

The best part of that evening was drinking a peach Bellini I’d bought on the street, sitting in the evening heat on the Spanish Steps, reflecting on my adventures. All by myself, but surrounded by hundreds :)

My Dad

I know this is totally off topic, but it’s Father’s Day and I’m just thinking about my dad.

And I guess to connect all of it, my dad is the reason I am who I am when it comes to relationships, dating, men.

I might be struck with a bolt of lightning for saying this, but he was kind of a jerk of a father.

He was controlling, unkind, selfish, self-centred, immature;  an alcoholic.

In the end, that’s what took him down.

After so many years of wishing he would just go away, he died, quietly, just ten months ago.

His liver finally gave in. He was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver just four years ago. His doctor said he probably had three or four years to live. He was put on the liver transplant list but his doctor said he may not survive long enough to benefit from a transplant. He died about three years and a few days after that diagnosis.

Last year on Father’s Day, my mom just reminded me from looking in her journal, I went over to their place and had an earnest discussion with my very sick and sometimes delusional (liver disease causes toxic build-up in the brain to the point of dementia) father. I had discussed being his liver donor with him before and he didn’t seem too keen on the idea so I’d left it alone. On this occasion, I guess I wanted to clear my own conscience and give him the final chance to refuse the offer of part of my liver. I didn’t even know if I would be a match, but something kept nagging at me to try because I worried that I would regret it afterwards if I didn’t.  I told him I’d been thinking about it and that I didn’t want him to think I had abandoned him. If he wanted to have the transplant and wanted part of my liver, I would do it. My mom and sister were absolutely against this idea, worrying for my own health and future. But I felt that I was the only one in the family who might be an option as a live donor, being single, young and having no dependants. I felt it was my duty to consider it.

When I broached the subject, he looked at me with surprise and said that he absolutely did not want or expect me to do that. I know that originally he wanted to protect my sister and I from that sort of challenge and was adamant that he would not allow us the option. But as he grew increasingly sick, it felt like I was watching him drown. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind that he was drowning in his toxic waste and hoped someone would soon toss him a life raft: I wondered if he felt abandoned.

In the end, I realized that not only did he not want me to donate my liver; he did not want a transplant at all. He did not like the idea of the surgery and months of recovery, rehabilitation and medication he would have to go through. But I had to ask one final time, more to clear my own conscience than anything else.

It was only two months later that he died, and what a strange experience it was.

One morning, when he was still living with my mom in their condo, he came to the realization that he was dying.

“Am I going to die?” he asked my mom through tears, scrunching up his face.

“I don’t know, I think so,” she said, crying herself and not knowing how to respond. They held hands and cried together for a time.

“Can you call the girls?” he finally said.

As I recall it was a hot July morning,  and I got the call from my sister saying that we needed to go see mom and dad. I think it was a Sunday, or at least a day when I didn’t have much else on, so I took the Go train out to their place and my sister and I spent the day there with my dad. He was in and out of sleep and consciousness by this point but for a few minutes he was lucid and we all sat around his hospital bed in what had become his nursing room.

The four of us – my sister, mom and I – sat with him and held his hands, stroked his hair and face. He said to us, in a jumbled string of words, “I will always love you” with his face scrunched up into tears, and, “Take care of your mother.”

We cried, held hands, and cried some more.

A week or so later, he was accepted into Dorothy Ley Hospice and at the hospice they tried to make his days comfortable but discontinued the medication he’d been on to combat the symptoms of his illness.

There were times I was in that room with him when he would talk about his sisters, father and mother as if he were a kid again. “Where’s Sheila?” he would say. “Did she come home from school yet?”

Or, “Where’s dad? I think he’s looking for me, I think he’s angry at me.”

He was like a little boy, confused about what was happening to him.

I held his hand and stroked his arm to try and comfort him, but I’m not sure he even knew who I was at that point.

The day before he died, in the hospice, my sister called and said, “Dad’s wide awake, totally alert and sitting up in bed, you need to come see him.”

She had arrived early in the morning and was shocked to find him fully conscious and awake after many days of being almost completely uncsonscious.

When I got there, he was indeed wide awake and conscious. It was a strange sight after so many weeks and months of sleeping.

He was sitting up and talking but his eyes were far away; they were glassy and glazed over as if he were already in a different world. He was a bit agitated and seemed anxious and frightened. He easily answered the questions we asked but seemed unsure of his answers and unsure of what was happening to his body.

The best way to describe him is that he was like a child, a frightened child.

We spent the whole next day by his side and he slept and slept and slept. He did not rouse a bit even if we spoke to him and asked him questions, touched his hands or face. He was very far away by that point.

Early the following morning, I got a call from my sister that my dad had died. She was in tears at the hospice and had been the first one to come across his motionless body at 7 a.m.

She was always so good about visiting, every day, and spending any available time she had by his side. Even though they fought like nobody’s business, they always had more of a father-daughter connection than he and I did. She loved him fiercely, despite his flaws and saw past what I refused to. She always saw the good side of him and he was lucky to have her as his daughter.

So I went, and what a strange and foreign feeling that was to go into the room and see him lying cold and motionless. His face had fallen into a bit of a smile, simply due to gravity and the fact that he was lying on his back. His left eye was not completely closed and it seemed as if it could still flutter open at any moment.

When I went into the room, my emotions overcame me. He hadn’t always been the best dad, in fact he wasn’t very nice to me a lot of the time, but in the end, he was still my dad and I loved him all the same.

It was the sheer ending of it all and finality that hit me so hard. I sat for a long time, looking at him and crying and crying and crying and crying. I felt like I could cry forever and fill up a river with tears and sadness. I cried for what he was and what he wasn’t and never could be for me; I cried for what he was and what he wasn’t and never could be for himself. I cried for the fear he must have felt, for the loneliness and for the anger and frustration that may have lingered within him, ever so slightly, for what he had done to himself. I honestly think he had no choice but to be exactly what he was. I know he wasn’t happy with it and for years he wrote notes and journals, encouraging himself and pleading with himself to change the way he was.

But in the end, he was who he was, and there was nothing he or any of us could have done about it.

So today, I think about him, and wish that he could have been the person that he had wanted to be. The person he might have been. Underneath many layers of frustration, agitation, impatience and anger, there was a man who really loved his wife but didn’t know how to be a good husband, who really loved his kids but didn’t know how to be a dad, and who just wanted to be so much more than he ended up being. He didn’t know how to get there and didn’t know how to ask for help.

Happy Father’s Day dad, I love you, just the same.

Men Behaving Badly

Not unlike Gretchen Rubin's 'Happiness Project', this is a Singleness Project. Basically, an attempt to live as happy and fulfilled a life as possible, while flying solo.

It’s been a while. I know.

But I have a few recent, really good reasons to blog it up again.

A couple of weeks ago I made out with a 25-year-old at a bar.  A week later I turned 37. Just wanted to put that out there because………well…………….. I’m proud of myself.
Anyway, it didn’t turn into anything, a few text messages after the fact and that’s about it; which is good because I’d hate to think of myself as turning into Demi Moore, because we all know where that road leads.

So I have a couple of beefs.

A friend and I went out for St. Paddy’s day, just to have a good time and a couple of drinks. We met three cute guys at a bar, one of them was all over her, one of them was all over me, and one of them was all over both of us. Later in the night after talking to a fourth, the quiet, not so attractive wall-flower guy, it turned out that the third guy was actually married and had a couple of kids. I watched him with disdain as he flirted with my friend and placed his hand on her ass. I said to him at one point, “How old are your kids?” And he very awkwardly said, “Six and eight, how did you know I had kids?” I noticed the ring on his left hand which he was trying to keep in his pocket a little bit later.

So, long story short, my friend hooked up with guy #1 and I hooked up with guy #2. We went back to my place, fooled around a bit, and my friend and her guy left because they live on the other side of town. My guy stayed. But in fact, I didn’t even really want him too. He was cute enough, but kind of a sloppy kisser and it was late and I just wanted to go to bed and not wake up with a stranger next to me in the morning. The thrill of that kind of wore off somewhere in the late 90s and random strangers in your bed is just not all that fun anymore.
My guy woke up around 6 a.m. and immediately got up and put on his clothes. I said, “Oh, I guess you’re on your way?” and he said. “Yep.”

He was supposed to be staying at a friend’s place down the street and was trying to remember the address and number. Then, as if he felt like he was supposed to, he said, “Can I get your number?” I gave it to him but felt like saying, ‘don’t bother’, I knew he wasn’t going to call.
The following week, my friend who had hooked up with the other guy, got a text from him asking her to go out for drinks. She did, they had a nice evening, he was just as into her as he was the first night and she quite liked him. The next day he texted her saying that he was really confused and messed up because he has a girlfriend. He said he really liked her but wouldn’t be able to see her again.

He also told her that the guy I had hooked up with had a girlfriend...............
Surprise, surprise.

Stay tuned for my next, even more shocking intallment, of Men Behaving Badly.