Friday, August 11, 2006

Watch me go

I've been running around like crazy for the last couple of days—rowing, dating, getting ready to leave for Canada—and I just haven't figured out how to fit writing in. I'm also facing a dilemma. Dating has once again reared it's head in my life. But I don't want to write about it. And I do want to write about it.

It's at times like these one might wish that one's mother did not have permission to read the blog. Mom, if you are reading, would you consider your permission revoked for the next week or so? Then you can come back with impunity.

It's not so much that my mother would disapprove. She's rather more open-minded than I give her credit for, but I'm not ready to talk to her about this yet. I need some time to process it myself; then, we'll see.

One might also wish that a long-distance virtual friend on whom one has a crush weren't privy to quite so much personal information. If such a friend is reading, well, please don't take this personally. I still like you.

So, what the hell am I talking about? I had a date on Wednesday night with a guy who I didn't expect to like. I thought it would be a drink, a bite to eat, one or two hours and out. I thought he would be arrogant (he was), insufferable (he wasn't) and attractive (he was). I didn't expect to hit it off with him, laugh a lot, enjoy our conversation and have a five hour date. But that's what happened.

However, this fellow is not a potential boyfriend. He is 24 and he's not looking for that. To be honest, it's hard for me to imagine a long term, serious relationship with someone that much younger. Anything is possible, but it's just not likely. But it's definitely impossible when the other person has declared his intentions otherwise ahead of time.

What are we talking about? I think you know. It's terribly amusing and very flattering and I'm seriously considering it.

I may have lost my mind, but I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of denying myself. I'm tired of being so good.

Grateful for: options.

Drop me a line.

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