Can I Have a Little Cheese to Go With My Whine?

Where is the man who recognizes quality? Where is the man who is content enough within his own skin to be content with one (and only one) fine woman putting him first?

Yesterday was a long and tough day. I am so spoiled by the intensity of the relationship with Mr. Match. I have absolutely thrived on this relationship. I keep expecting to hear the phone ring — that jazzy ringtone that I have associated with his phone number. But it doesn't ring. And I look online at Match and there he is, looking around. And I bang my head against the wall and say, again, "it's not about me." But that's hard to say, and hard to feel.

I hate this whole dating thing of having to sell myself. I want someone who can look at me and say, "Wow, that's quality. I want that in my life." I analogize it to walking into Nordstrom. (Okay, so I'm prejudiced. Ten years of "making beautiful music to shop by" left me with the belief that Nordstrom is the gold standard in shopping.) When a shopper walks into Nordstrom, he knows he is surrounded by quality: quality fabrics and materials; quality construction; quality sales associates; quality customer service. It's all around.

I think that's me. Yeah, I've got my baggage. But I've got nametags on all the bags, and I know what's in every one. And I know how to occasionally open up the bag and take everything out and refold it so it can be put away again. That's good knowledge, right?

I just heard the first bird of the day singing outside my window. Wake up. Maybe the perfect man exists only in movies.

Thanks for letting me whine a little more.