I have a hood on. There’s no Eminem song in the background; it’s just me and the Lineman. I’ve realized there’s a reality to my life that no one really sees. It’s the me that leaves the date and goes home alone in her own head to her own dog and her own comforts. I have a smell, and gestures, and one eye closes more than the other when I really like something. And, there are certain quirky comforts that I take a shying to. Mine include, beyond the aforementioned “notorious d.o.g.,” the sweats with the stars on the ass and the hoody sweatshirt that claims “phys ed.” Too many people make assumptions. My life is very lonesome, in it’s own way, and I suppose it will be until I’ve a husband and child. Now, granted, I can say that now, but I’ve no idea if that’s some truth. Bottom line, we all think something will “happen” which will be some catalyst for an earth-shattering change. We all think it. It’s what we’re raised to think. We’re fed a diet of “before” and “after” moments. Our parents spoon us “before I met your mother, I didn’t really know love or selflessness.” And we eat it and ask for seconds as if we’re dealing with mashed potatoes. Please, sir. Bottom line, I have so many silent moments in my life, that I worry I’m feeling on my own. Some bit of me knows someone else must be feeling them too. I think I’ll always have those moments.
My life is a series of "before" and "after" moments. Except, in the love department, I have that really slow, comb-over of a man telling me I’ve stood in line for the past 3 hours with the wrong form, and on the wrong line. My love life is fcuking DMV. I know I hold the wheel. I’ve got the car and the government O.K. but I keep circling, trying to make a turn, and I end up in the slow lane. Why can’t I meet a good driver? All I fcuking want is a man who can take charge, ignore my bullshit and the dumbass blog, and realize I’m more than words. I’m messy. I’ve got a scent and tears and a dog that craps on the floor. I’m not town & country hot. I don’t drink milk and snack on red apples. That has to be okay. Why is it so hard to find a man who can just deal? When I find him, God willing, you will all hear about it. His photo will be posted, beside the post, and you’ll all want to clap. In the meanwhile, it’s me and the notorious d.o.g. Which I hate, and I LOVE. He is my noodle pudding, sunset, walk on the beach, cliche of a crapass date and then some. God, I love that dog, especially when he’s silent and sleeping in my arms. I watch the rise and fall of him, feel his breath, and I love his puppy cornchip smell.
I live my life in a series of silent moments and observations. I say goodnight to a good date, who puts me off in a good cab, and any normal woman would think the date was splendid. But I’ll never really be normal. I linger in my silent moment, when the cab pulls away, thinking, it was a lovely date. And, I turn my head, even though I know I probably shouldn’t incase he’s looking, and I see him in the distance on his cell phone… growing SMALLER. He diminished the moment the moment he picked up the cellular. If our time wasn’t enough, if he’s looking for more than me, well, I know my limitations. I can’t compete with someone who’s looking for experience. Because, quite frankly, I’m experienced, and I’m tired of it. I don’t want to date; I want to make babies. Yes, it’s a process, but guess what? I’ve always, always, been a quick read. I’m ready. Or not. Here I come. And for the love of God, if I’m doing it all wrong, send in the deus ex machina. I need some guidance in the l.o.v.e. department, but from what I hear, they’re hiring. And how! Bring that shit. On.