I feel like a hopeless, potential, mail order bride. Too old, too fat, too shy, too plain and too much negative exaggeration. Yep, a woman who can’t snag a man face to face, so has to resort looking for some sex starved man in a mining camp in Alaska.
Hold on, this melodramatic kick is expanding exponentially in the wrong direction. Time to get a grip. You’re not some woman desperate to escape Siberia, merely a woman looking to jump back into the dating pool.
I know. I know. I said I would do it, if for no other reason than to make you all, my inner voices, Shut Up. It’s me standing on the high diving board gazing down at the pool. However, I’ll merely pretend I’m back in Girl Scouts attempting to earn another badge, my red badge of courage, to sew on my sleeve for all to see.
How does this sound—middle aged female who last dated when Disco Duck was popular looking for unsuspecting male of any age with teeth and some hair? Whoa baby, we’re talking a solid grabber. I better order a larger email box for all the replies that will generate.
Cute is over, be serious. You’ve been alone for five years now. Time to get the proverbial big toe wet. Or better yet, you could get wild and crazy and get your whole foot wet. Think back—waaaaaaaaay back—-how much better you felt after you had your first sexual experience.
Feel better? Are you kidding? Have you forgotten what transpired during that episode? It was a cold December in the back seat of Jack’s 1957 Chevy—the only classy aspect of the evening—his condom with the Big Guy safely inside got tangled up with the zipper of my ski jacket.
No, no I’m not talking about that time. It doesn’t count.
Well it sure looms in memory as a countable item at least under the fiasco column.
Just go ahead and do it! What’s the bloody deal about on-line dating? Everyone else does it.
Yeah right, like have I used that statement as a motivator since junior high? You forgot to put the high pitch whine at the end of the statement. Just be quiet—all of you! I’ve too many different voices in my head most of whom possess a mini deviant personality. I’m the new Sybil. Maybe that’s not a bad deal after all. Picture this. An impressive movie mogul comes to our little town for a private R & R vacation. Synergy crackles in the air. Snap! Inexplicably both of us happen to be sitting next to each other drinking a beer at the Get Lucky Tavern on Water Street.
Already I see a hole, you don’t drink beer.
Be quiet. This is my fantasy. He catches a glimpse of my profile in his peripheral vision. Mesmerized he attempts to engage me in conversation. I can tell he is from California. He’s too tan for this time of year, his teeth are too perfect and there’s the faint odor of avocados Californians seem to emit. I’m polite, but distant. He’s fascinated by my semi-rejection.
Oh please, this is tooooo much, even for a fantasy.
How many times do I have to tell you to pipe down. As I was saying, fascinated he perserves. I finally succumb to his charm and genuine interest. In the end he comes to know me—-all of me—-like he meets all of YOU. The final result is him begging me to allow him to produce a multi-million dollar movie of my life featuring my everyday struggle with all of you. Me coping so admirably, using no drugs as help.
Stop it. That’s gawd awful drivel.
I always knew I would be a star. I wonder what I should wear on the red carpet?
If you think this is going to be an effective side tracking mechanism, you are wrong. Get busy and write the ad.
Okay. Okay. But first I need chocolate and I need it now. Then I ‘m on it.
To be Continued
Check out Marcie’s Recipe for Chocolate Walnut Torte for an over the top chocolate fix!