"I've been dating since I was 15. I'm exhausted! Where is he?"
~Charlotte York, Sex & The City
Two days after my Alma Mater gave away their conference title like warm blankets at Christmas to homeless people my mom inquired as to if they could win their bowl game. My response was, "who knows?" What can I say? I was highly frustrated. It was a sense of frustration that vodka couldn't even cure. Black tar heroin may have been able to do the trick, but I am not that kind of girl. I repeat, I am not that kind of girl. No team wins when they allow 90% of 3rd downs to be completed by their opponent. They looked like Whitney Houston during her Barbara Walter's interview in 1993...All shaken up about crack. I should have known my team would struggle, since a few of their wins were somewhat suspect. That afternoon my mom emailed me and asked me if everything was okay. That evening she called and asked if everything was okay. Obviously, she assumed that all was not well in my world due to my response. If I didn't assure her that everything was okay, I am sure that she would have resorted to cross stitching the question on a pillow. I told her that nothing unusual was bothering me. The "usual" being the fact that once again, I didn't wake up in the morning next to my hot Italian husband who has a sense of humor to match mine. Yes, I have a thing for men of slight color. I love, love, love Italian men, however, I have been known to confuse/substitute them with a tamale roller or drug dealer or two.
A couple of years after a high school, I started dating a guy that I stayed with for 8 years. Man, was he a loser and I knew it! My parents knew it too. Up until about a year ago, my mom would sporadically remind me that it would not be a good idea for me to ever get back together with him. I did not need a reminder. My bad memories served me well.
A few years ago, he contacted me via a social networking site and like a dumbass I gave him my number. I must have been in an advanced stage of drinking that evening. He said he wanted to be friends. I was okay with being friends until he asked me what color panties I was wearing one night. Either, we had different definitions of what friends meant or he was lying about his intentions. I will go with the latter, since he was a big, fat liar to begin with! He put the final nail in his coffin with that comment. He really crossed the line and once he did that I drew my line with black tar. My line basically said. "Go play in traffic!" I should have shanked him in the kidney years ago.
After I suffered through an 8 year relationship with him, it was time to play, be free, and discover who I really was. Who was I? I was Diane and I had the nameplate necklace specially ordered from Patricia Field in NYC to prove it. Unfortunately, that necklace became a victim of a vacuum cleaner one day. I was a true player AND I crushed a lot. I was single and fabulous. My signature move seemed to be smoking Cuban cigars out of my front stoop in my see-thru pj's. Guys always seemed to love that look. Ironically, I did not plan that. I just did it. I never do anything on purpose to attract attention. I just do what I do. Everything is an accident. When I looked in the mirror, I saw somebody who was confident and molten-lava hot. I was the belle of the ball at every bar I frequented. I traveled a lot and I seemed to have a knack for choosing guys that I wouldn't have to commit to i.e. out-of-towners or the guy in the military being shipped off to Afghanistan. I wasn't sure what I wanted. All I know is that I was in some sort of downward spiral with the letters "L-O-V-E" wrapped around it and I took a lot of hearts down with me.
So here we are 10 years later. I am still single and I am fabulous, yet I am not single and fabulous. Nor am I desperate, however, I crave a solid relationship with somebody who is stable and who is my biggest fan. I now feel as though I want what I used to fear. I want the guy who I never thought I wanted. I don't want a rock star. Instead, I want somebody who stars in the sitcom titled "Reliable and Stable". I always went after the jerk/junkie. It was as if I organized a line-up of the ten biggest losers and said, "Look mommy. I want that one!" I would always kick and scream until I landed the biggest jerk. And where did that land me? In the land of cooking for one, because losers have a shelf life. And, leftovers only last so long before they start to decompose like roadkill.
So now all I can do is wait. My only other option would be to start serving samples of my delicious cooking on the frozen food aisle at Kroger while handing out cards to eligible men that have my airbrushed picture on the front of the card and my phone number on the back of the card just in case they need the recipe. What's the big rush? I want a live-in that I can "hug the HELL out of lying down" whenever I want.
BTW, I am okay. I am never alone. I have an awesome cat and I have a great family and circle of friends, as well, as a nifty crew of colorful acquaintances and if that ends up not being enough I can always get lost in my own brain which is a pretty interesting place to vacation. And, if you are wondering what happened to all of the hearts I broke...They all got married so I am guessing they are just fine. They may be bored, but they are okay.
