With each failed almost-relationship, and with each someone-new, it becomes more difficult to screw up one's courage to . . . . To what? To believe? To dare to believe? To think the Universe will deign to smile on you and bring you some happiness again?
Sometimes I envy those people who are perfectly content to go through the rest of their lives alone. I'm not there. I don't even know if I could ever get there.
Lee took me to breakfast on the beautiful blue Honda Goldwing Sunday morning. He's renovating his house, a long protracted project. He said if he ever meets a woman who has the potential of becoming his life partner for the rest of his life, she'd better love this house and be willing to move into it because he's put so much sweat equity and thought into it.
I suggested they could have separate houses and retold the story about all the [older] couples in Tucson where the man lives in the guest house and the woman lives in the main house.
"Not interested," he immediately replied.
He then quoted me to me, the phrase about wanting to wrap my leg around the warm body of a loving man lying next to me in bed.
Am I willing to relax some of my standards or polish some of my rough edges to be able to have that intimacy day-in and day-out? Dare I believe that's even possible?
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