Thoughts About Nothing in Particular (So What Else is New?)

An acquaintance recently suggested I write something more useful than my self-reflective bullshit. That's not a direct quote, but it pretty much captures the spirit of the advice.

Two possible  responses sprang immediately to mind -- the third, to heed the advice -- didn't come into play until days later. I resisted the first option, which was to to simply tell him to fuck himself, and went with the other, my "go-to," which is to get defensive. It is useful, damn it. Even if only to my small handful of loyal readers. And, if not to them, it is useful, to me.

I'm not big on handing out suggestions, even worse about taking them. I cringe when someone questions me. And, by cringe, I mean I shrivel up into an amorphous and blithering little ball and remind myself I have never done anything right, ever. Maybe I should have asked the psychologist about that, the one I dated, once. I told some friends, the other day, that I've come to look at dating as simply a pathway to lots of free meals. The psychologist only sprang for a drink though; I should have extracted some therapy before scratching him off the list.

My son-in-law suggested I write a book about my dating life, pepper it with little vignettes about the man I sleep with on a regular basis (my devastatingly handsome castrated boxer) and the new gentleman in my life, Stanley, the bull dog, my grand-pup. He's recently castrated, but has yet to feel the full effects, and humps my leg whenever he gets the chance. It's annoying and a little painful, but I admit I kind of like feeling irresistible.

Dating, in my early 50's, was bad enough. Now, as 60 looms large, it's awful. It seems less about physical attraction than the absence of revulsion. Chemistry morphs into practicality, something certainly more complicated than a swipe left or right; it's a constant weighing of each other's baggage, assessing whether the two lifetimes' worth of wear and tear can coexist without disturbing whatever precarious balance we've each achieved. Only then do you even wonder whether, if you dim the lights enough, there might be something better than indifference or resignation.

If there's anything useful in here, I suppose it's only apparent to me. I know that dinners out are sometimes more fun than dinner at home, alone, and sometimes it's just better to hang on the couch, smothered by dogs, covered in dog hair. At least the dogs don't talk. If I had anything profound to say, I would write something useful, advise women coming down the pike behind me, divorced, approaching 60.

But you're on your own, ladies. Again, I'm not big on handing out suggestions. Or taking them.