Diary:  20 February 2013. Before dressing.

I have been treading the waters of life, solo, for 10 years, building selectively-styled walls between myself and the shallow pool of available men in this locale.  If they haven’t slept with one of my divorced girlfriends they’re about to.  That’s not for me.  

I am the designated shoulder for my friend’s morning-after wailing blues; for every one-night stand some other woman has I have had negative-twice that amount.  That thin physical connectivity is not for me.  “Going out” with friends had me coming home by myself, down whatever driveway led to whatever home was mine, in the middle of many a night, alone.  

Not a wonder I hear so many owls.  Happy to not suffer any heartbreak.  Comfortably resigned that I declined the opportunities to experience something with another person even if it was drunken and easily forgotten or meaningless.
I am learning to enjoy attention, and relish returning same, and look forward to whatever is in store, ever mindful that I am the one who drives my brokenhearted girlfriends to brunch on Sunday, and squares away their children so they are free for trysts and dark assignations with the soon-divorcing husband of our neighbor across the street (oh, yes!).  And then I realize I have little-to-no experience of being courted. This is all unfamiliar – but nice. I second-guess myself because this choreography of flirtation and intimacy is not a vocabulary I know at all. Imagine waltzing while your shoes are tied together… .
Happily interested, I still check my email to see which girlfriends are slated for another crash and burn this weekend.

They’ll need a ride home, and a ride to brunch on Sunday.

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