OK, my guy is my guy no more. In all honesty one of my very biggest fears (and the queen can totally verify this as she heard me whine about it with big, blubbery tears when she could still stand to hear my big, blubbery tear whines) was that this was it. This was my one shot at “twoo wove” and I was now to start the rest of my life as sad, lonely spinster woman. I was plotting the purchase of the third cat (because remember that the mandatory minimum number of cats to be a crazy cat lady is three and I only have two. But if I’m gonna be a spinster I should just buy another cat and a horribly-floral housecoat and bunny slippers and go for it…) and thinking about selling my big, 2-person bed for a tiny 1-person bed for no reason other than to not be mocked by the whole extra person-worth of totally unused space.
But then Mr. Distraction showed up and seemed to find me… interesting. Or at least potentially interesting. I very definitely got the idea that he considered me potentially… something. I had potential. And potential is good!
Also this potential for potential meant I could practice my flirting. I’m a terrible flirter, or so I’ve been assured by the actual women I know. So practice would be good, and it seemed like I was being successful enough to at least not drive him away. And that was potentially potentialful too. So that gave me the hopes. It let me decide that maybe T.E. had found some glimmer of something in me that he, at least once, found compelling and if I could compel him, even though he’s made up of 100% unique and amazing, maybe I could compel someone else. For instance Mr. Distraction.
Now one of the things that has been constantly and repeatedly shoved into my poor, red, puffy face this year is that though I have the creaky bones and stretched-out skin of an old lady of over 40, I have the relationship experience of someone who’s totally psyched to vote for the first time and looks forward to puking up Tequilla legally. It makes me crazy that I’m only now wandering through such classics as “how can it be over?” and “what do you mean I still have to get up and live my life? Every day???” and “what do you do with a life that was supposed to be lived w/ that other person after that other person decides they want to live their life with some other other person?” I know that most folks my age will have gone through this a super-long time ago, become blasé about it and now find the idea of having ever felt this way quaint. Silly even. But not me. For me this is fresh and new and now and totally what the kids are doing these days. If those kids are me.
The other thing is I’ve never figured out guys. Now I know that most women, even those of my wretched age, will tell you that no women have ever figured out guys. They’re un-figure-out-able. They’ll tell you they’re simple, but that’s all lies and falsehoods. They’re like a puzzle box made out of a whoopee cushion and fart jokes. However the big difference between me and most women my age is I’m still so new to this that I keep trying to figure them out. I have not hit that point where either A. I’ve FOUND my man, so screw the rest of them I don’t have to figure it out anymore – HOORAY! or B. I’ve tried it so many times with so many different men, always to reach the same frustrating conclusion, that I’ve finally given up and have comfortably adopted the attitude of “screw them. They want sex – they’ll figure me out.” I want to get there – to either of these places – but my Plan A blew up and my Plan B should be ready about the time I’m doing physical therapy with my new hip to prove I can even HAVE sex at my age.
Ok, how did I get here? What the hell were we talking about? Oh, right. Mr. Distraction and having potential.
OK, so there I was being wonderfully distracted from my all-encompassing heartbreak by Mr. Distraction. We were chatting and emailing and there were flirtings and sexual innuendo and pictures being bandied about. And finally after a few weeks there was a meeting. 1 hour for a beer and some chatting, and I drove there totally ready to find our in-person chemistry to be of the “ammonia + bleach = death” variety. And yet 1 hour/beer later I was vaguely smitten. I was at least charismafied enough to think I’d made a new friend, and that’s a very good thing, so yay! We connected and went our separate ways, and though I probably over-talked and over-shared and though I spent the drive home doing a lot of “I can’t believe that I…” in my head it still seemed extremely promising.
Three weeks later I sent him an email basically saying “it’s a pity you turned out to be a jerk.”
After we met it was three emails in three weeks. He kept saying “super busy but still interested!” or “out of town but still interested!” or “sick, so sick, but really, did I mention I’m interested?” but at a certain point I realized, as all girls probably eventually realize, that I somehow got to a point where he was just keeping me on the line for the possible potential for sex. (and as you guys already know if that’s what he was looking for from me it is to laugh! Laugh until you pee!) So I let him know I was lame for waiting around and he was lame for being lame and buh-bye.
Thus endeth part one…