If I could find my journal (lying in repose in some box in the storage unit, along with the nine books on my must-read stack that were beside my bed before the moving van arrived), and I sat poring over my Google calendar, and I walked backwards through the cobwebs of my mind, I could tell you how many first dates I have had since John's death just short of ten years ago. It's a finite number, but larger than I would like it to be.
I go into each first date with minimal expectations but great hopes. I won't elucidate the hopes here—I've said it all before. You and I are all sick of the litany. It's a pain in the royal butt to have to go through the first date drivel over and over. How does one lay out the bare minimum of a life well or poorly lived, the requisite information for the man sitting across from you to feel he knows you well enough to make an informed decision on whether or not he cares to spend any more of his precious time with you.
(Yeah, we'd all like lightning to strike the table. It's been almost two years since that first date with Mr. Match that set me spinning and started this whole blogging routine. He's a God-damned fool for not realizing I was enough for him. And I'm lucky-beyond-belief that I didn't hook up with him—he who is destined to go through life wearing a ball cap embroidered with the word, "Scoundrel". Lightning strikes are rare.)
I say precious time because that's exactly what time is in my life. You've read my schedule: an hour commute each way, an eight hour day, an hour lunch, an hour to get dressed in the morning, eight hours of sleep to prevent migraines. That leaves four hours to do everything else that must be done, twenty hours during the work week to: fill up with gas, grocery shop, make or buy breakfast, do laundry, read e-mail, play with the babes, clean up the kitchen after dinner, sneak in some sewing time. Oh, and work in a date now and again.
And yet I hope. And yet I keep looking. And when I look—on Match, on Yahoo—there are all the men who are also looking. I've seen some of these men out there for years! (Yeah, yeah, they've been seein' me out there for years also.) We're all out there, looking for someone to fill some little hole in our lives. Each man and woman out there—no matter how fat/skinny, handsome/homely, smart/dull, rich/struggling, multiple children/no kids, multiply married/never married—is looking for someone and believes there is someone in this world for him or her. And hopes that person won't be too geographically undesirable. And hopes his family will like her and she them. And hopes when he takes her to a business function, she won't embarrass him. Hopes she'll look good on his arm. Hopes they'll like the same music/politician/brand of peanut butter.
Is that what makes us human? Is our humanity what enables us to hope and keep hoping and have our hopes dashed and still keep hoping? If I stop hoping, will a little piece of my heart or my psyche die along with my dreams?
Is a buddy enough for the rest of my life? Can my family meet my need to bestow love, and a buddy meet my need for someone my age and the opposite sex with whom to have a connection?
Can I be satisfied with the Traveler and the Gardener and JW and like men who are my dearest friends and companions but not my lovers?
Can life be complete without a lover?
I hope I don't have to find out.
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