I’m beginning to realize that this blog is becoming less of a diary than my daily IMs with friends.  See, I feel compelled to update them on everything: the fights we’re having over driving, parking, the damn GPS system.  "I will sit in the congested traffic lane if I know I have to turn in a mile.  It’s not worth getting over."  And then I added, "Today I couldn’t get over, so I drove a few miles out of my way."  Then I confide how he screamed at me until I cried, more than once, last week.  "You drive so fucking slow; you’re a danger to yourself and others.  You should seriously consider going to driving school."  Ass, it’s called "Austin Legs."  I’m just getting mine.  A new car and driving (since I haven’t done it since high school) are stressful when I don’t know where I’m going. It will just take me a while to adjust, to learn how the car turns, how far I need to pull up in a lot, how much I need to turn the wheel before hitting the gas.  And following someone who guns it at a yellow light is right up there with getting on the scale at the gynecologist*.  "Have you considered nice school?" I should have responded to Mr. I’m Just Concerned.  Sarcastic and snotty.  Last I checked, not so concerned.  I want to punch him in the head sometimes.  It’s not the hormones. 

"Sorry to be so mean to you first thing," the nurse said as she slid the weight along the metal scale.  I hate this part more than stirrups.  It was bad.  So bad I turned away, but I have a vague idea.  Not good.  I’ve been exercising here, eating healthfully, for the most part.  It would be easier if I lived alone.  Alone, I wouldn’t feel compelled to eat dinner.  I wouldn’t have to look at the cookie he has on the counter.  I could just eat yogurt and drink coffee and masturbate.  I would be thinner if I were alone. I also wouldn’t be as happy as I am now.

I think I need to go to a nutritionist, someone to keep me honest and accountable.  That’ll be my next project.  I’m also trying to make friends, which is weird, because it’s like I’m on a mission to meet.  When you’re looking for a mate, there’s Hurry-Date, speed-dating, Internet dating.  No one really makes a friend via friendster.  I refuse to scour craigslist in want of a bosom friend.  Friends usually happen organically.  Sometimes it’s a set up.  "There’s a girl I used to date there.  I think you two will hit it off, go get your Jamba Juice on together or something."  Sometimes it’s a reader offering up her services.  If you’re a mother, you meet like-minded mothers at parks, gymboree.  Mostly though, you meet people through work or school at this age.  A class.  Where will I meet someone who lives in Austin and isn’t moving away in another month? 

Here’s what I realized, it’s just like dating.  You know you go on that first polite enough date, both of you smile, snacking on the info-bites you’re given.  You know details but you have a feeling about them.  You just know if there will be a second date or not, pretty early on.  Sometimes it’s a tough call.  So you go out again, give things a chance.  Then you eventually get frustrated and decide to stop giving people the benefit of the doubt.  You call it "your gut," and you walk away.  Is it the same with the same sex though, when you’re looking to make new friends, as if it’s a job, when do you just stop returning her calls? 

"Look," I told my friend Alexandra over IM, "if she were a man, I’d never agree to a second date.  So why would I go out with her again?"  Of course I’d love to just make a new friend, just let it happen naturally, without prompting, emails, or set ups.  It doesn’t take meeting scads of women, it just takes one well-connected woman, who has her own set of carefully selected friends, to take me under her wing.  But I work daily writing in Starbucks.  I’m not meeting anyone here.  I’ve already been to five different ones, checking out the clientele for friendliness.  I’m now working from a drive-thru bucks.  Maybe I need to take tennis lessons.  No, not driving lessons.

*The gynecologist said nothing is wrong.  I’m perfectly healthy, just sans spot.  He’s prescribed meds to make spot magically appear. Provera. Broken vagina.  New car.  All the better in which to get lost.