I'm not really single any more. I met someone. On a fracking dating site. In less than three months of plowing through toads.
Yes, it's true.
I'm not wearing shoes so there will be no dropping of one or the other.
I am not going to write much on it, if ever. Because I don't usually swing that way. Especially now because it is all brand new.
There is a film sequence in my head where I am wearing a lovely burgundy lace gown. My hair is up, Gibson style. I walk down a hallway of tall windows dressed in gauzy, floor to ceiling curtains that billow in a soft breeze. Men of all sizes and shapes, but within my parameters of between age 57 and 65 and living within 75 miles of me, who do not smoke, are not married, are not looking for a hookup or casual encounters, line each side of the hallway.
I stop and look intently into each face. Some eyes pop open, with idiotic grins and drool rolling down their face. Some look sternly back at me and say "Not pretty enough!" or "Not thin enough!" or "Not enough enough!" And I pat each on the head and say, most times kindly, "not you," always referring to them with their personal not real name.
Then I come to the himself who I refer to in the first paragraph of this post. Fireworks shoot up from behind him, burning all the curtains down and scaring the others, who leave in a panicked run. Our eyes lock in a surprise of instant mutual knowing, as shit eating grins spread from ear to ear on both of our attractive faces. Salsa music starts up and we dance away as the camera fades out.
Isn't that nice?
We're waiting to tell each other we love each other until this weekend. Because it is crazily just too soon.
I so dearly hope he is not a pooper.