What's the Point, Really?

I tried to call Mr. Match last night. I wanted to return his books and retrieve my CDs before I leave for Washington next week. He didn't answer. I can only assume he's out with yet another woman he saw on Match. (I don't know it for a fact. But I can jump to conclusions with the best of 'em.)

Anyway, the thought of his hot and cold running women made me wonder what that must be like. I like going out to dinner as much as the next gal, but the tension of continually meeting new people, or the first few dates with someone — well, it's not relaxing, it's not comforting and nurturing. It's exciting to a point; after that, it's just tedious.

When Mr. Match and I were at our five-dates-a-week stage, I loved seeing him. I missed him on the nights when he was otherwise occupied and couldn't wait to hear his voice on the next phone call. We very quickly slipped from lightning striking the table to old-shoe comfortable. I loved that. It was absolutely magical. And then his phone calls stopped with the snap of a finger (mine) and I went from feeling nurtured and loved to feeling ignored and abandoned and uncared-for.

I think maybe I don't want lightning to strike any more tables in my life. When the smoke dissipates, the emptiness is too great, the loneliness too overwhelming. Could bumper cars be better than a roller coaster? Could the Grand Prix Raceway be better than Space Mountain? Maybe for me the answer is yes.

What I've got going on now with the Gardener is just plain fun. I laugh. Ms. Too-Serious-for-Her-Own-Good is actually laughing on a regular basis. Hot Damn, it's fun. I don't have expectations for next month, much less next week. But I'm having a great time.

Maybe the older we get, the less serious we get. And maybe that's not a bad thing.