Knotty Thursday: Tinsel and the Fancy Purple Thing!

 Before I get to Wednesday night shenanigans, there's a lot to say about Tuesday night! I have finally redeemed the Big Fancy Garden! The Shy One let me take him there for our Christmas date, and it was an absolutely PERFECT night.

As soon as we stepped out of the entrance building, a deep night-before-Solstice hush came over my whole being. The trees and archways were lit bright and the stars sparkled above in the clear, cold sky. The Shy One is tropical at heart, so he grumbled a bit about the low temp, but it was a good-natured Luke Daines kind of grumbling. He bought us hot chocolates. We took a jillion pictures of trees and lights and flowers. I asked a stranger to take our picture together.

On the drive home, I put on my  A She and Him Christmas CD until it made me too sleepy, then he DJed from his Spotify list. My tire light came on, so we pulled into a gas station to check them, and then the tire light went off.

And then, back at my place, the presents. I knew he would go all out (See: post-Ramadan princess tea cup!) and I don't have much money this year, so I painted him a little painting and made him a photo scrapbook of our cuteness so far. I got him Knots: The Complete Visual Guide and a start to his rope collection, black and silver. 

And then, his gifts for me!  A rose candle. Two pretty-scented lotions. He's always perfect with candles and lotions! And THEN, the lingerie.

I've always LOVED lingerie. I started collecting it from thrift stores when I was a teen, and lord knows this blog has seen its share of pretty bras and special-occasion undies.

But these.

These are surprise-from-a-boyfriend-in-the-best-kind-of-chick-lit-novel lacy things. They are Princess Slut Goddess lacy things. They are FANCY. 

One of the tamer pictures The Shy One took!

I tried on one set during the date, and I'll keep that lovefest mostly to myself for now, but all day yesterday, while I was blazing along through my Christmas chores, doing festively half-assed work sessions, and avoiding folding the laundry, I daydreamed about the Fancy Purple Thing. When my last client of the day cancelled, I rushed home to be with myself, to wrap myself in rope and tinsel and The Shy One's lacy love language. Very, very festive indeed.

Perfect Birthday Date with The Shy One, Part One

 

(I’m behind on my cuteness reporting—this date was two weeks ago.)

(Right now, The Shy One is getting ready for a spouses' trip wherein it’s likely he’ll/they'll hook up with a friend. In my head, (I know almost nothing about her) she is the perfect unicorn and will definitely negate any future need for me. He has taken great care to assure me that that won’t be the case, (the negating, I mean) and the assurance means a lot, but still. It’s a vulnerable moment to be paragraphing about him, or maybe the perfect moment. They haven’t invented that turn-me-into-a-compersion-robot-for-the-weekend technology yet, so I’m doing my best to love myself through the complicated-but-mostly-just-rooting-for-him fraughtness.)

Now for the fancy date story! Although, as we’ve established, I see myself as Upstairs in the Downton sense, I’ve never seen myself as someone who could be taken on a fancy date. Sweetie-Now-BFF and I have treated ourselves from time to time, but being taken out someplace by a man? That’s movies, not me. So when The Shy One picked a fancy steakhouse downtown to celebrate my birthday, I was completely dazzled and pretty intimidated.

I had weeks to prepare/make myself nervous. I spent a good chunk of time scrolling through purple dresses online and I found the perfect one: long, gauzy, royal purple, with a thick satin ribbon at the empire waist. The shop had it labeled “mother of the bride” but to me, it was a princess dress. It came right away and fit perfectly, just like a shipping fairy tale.

Then, on a solo mini-vacation in an artsy mountain town, I found just the right baubly necklace at a flea market for three dollars! And a pretty beaded mauve purse at a vintage shop that looked like the inside of the B-52s collective mind. I hadn’t bought a specific purse for a specific reason since my wedding nineteen (!) years ago. It was like Artsy Mountain Town was playing the role of fairy godmother.

Purse-buying aside, I tried (unsuccessfully) not to get too carried away about this date. I was a little overwhelmed and self-conscious, had even a little trouble feeling worthy. This is a thing I run into a lot these beautiful, romantic days—how is this happening to actual me?! A year ago, I couldn’t even get The Coach to come fuck me in person!

When the Friday night of the date arrived, I felt so gorgeous that I texted my closest neighbors to see if they could come take my picture. I ran into them out front and posed for the camera while I waited for my Lyft.

I never went to the prom (My date, the prettiest hippie girl in any given mosh pit, got scared to go because we’d been targeted a bully lacrosse player girl a few times. I had the perrrrrfect dress picked out for that night too though, fresh from the Thrifty Shopper. It was pink polyester with long floaty, translucent sleeves that had sparkly buttons at the cuffs. Someone had sewn it by hand, and there was a same-pink-fabric triangle sewn in at the neckline. A little on the nose. I wore that dress A LOT in my late teens/ early 20s. You may or may not remember that disco had a Nineties revival.) but this 2022 birthday moment was a little taste of what prom might have felt like.

When the car pulled up in front of the restaurant, I saw The Shy One and said to the Lyft driver “Right here. Oh my goodness, look at him.”

He was wearing a light blue dress shirt and, in his pocket, had perfectly matched blue shades. He looked as nervous as I felt, and we went inside.

As she led us to our table, the hostess asked, “Do you have any plans after this?” and I could not find it in me to be a normal person in that moment and just say “No, not really!” and deflect the question. But we DID have plans afterwards, and all I could picture was my new royal purple set of ropes.

“…Sort of?” I said, giggling and trying to stifle a huge smile.

“Do I want to know? She asked, leading us up the formal staircase to our booth on the mezzanine.

“Probably not!” I giggled some more.

Fourth Date Tears: Part Two

In my neighborhood, there’s a little woods. I don’t get to walk there in the daytime too much because people let their dogs off leash and then I get mad at the people with the dogs off leash and then I feel like a monster.

They’re really pretty woods though, lit enough by the edge-of-city light that we didn’t need a flashlight. I steered The Shy One through, wishing I could feel the romance of the moment. Instead, the leashless dogs info came out, and I felt truly lost about how to be human.

“I’m sad, I said. “I want to be a real girlfriend. I want to be free. I want my heart to be free to go where it wants.” (I’m sure I didn’t say it this articulately.)

It’s been too many tears already in such a new connection, that’s for sure. He held me there, in the middle of the little woods, crying onto his shirt, both of us sorrying again and again.

“Are you still dating?” He asked, as I was wiping my face and starting up the path again.

It’s probably unfair, but my heart broke some more. I remember this feeling. I HATE this feeling—the feeling of not being fast enough, poly enough, TAKEN enough to be a safe bet. I don’t think that’s what he was saying, but I felt pushed to move on from him, whether we broke things off or not.

I haven’t been dating for a little while. Even during Ramadan when we were confined to texts and calls, he felt like a lot. He felt like enough. I’ve been working on a local primary campaign, building up my business for summer, and spending as much friend time and taking-pictures-of-flowers time as I can. Getting settled in with The Shy One and getting ready to meet Mrs. Shy One was a lot on top of all that. It wasn’t that I was suddenly monogamous, it’s just that people take time  for me to learn, especially when I really like them.

In the grief that was layering itself onto the evening, the not-dating felt like another way I was failing him, failing them by not having enough chill, not feeling able to sink into the warmth of Things As They Are, feeling like I was both too much and not enough.

The little woods has a kiosk where I like to put street art, woods art I guess, it always stays up a long time there. The Shy One held my bag while I tidied the old art and put up some new.

The story of The Good Boy came out after that, as unwelcome as my petty ramblings about the leashless dogs. (It’s an important bird area, people!) I felt wretched and stupid and not-nice, unable to find my way to the present with the beautiful man next to me, who seemed devoted to me in his own way, who, if I wanted (at least for a few hours) wasn’t going anywhere. I really wanted my body and spirit to stop hovering with heartbreak and panic. I wanted to come down to earth and be with him. I wanted to be with him.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Three

That week, while my creative coaching client was collaging through her blocks, I made this. Both a staircase and a trapped butterfly, seems about right.

It should be said, friends, that my almost-year-and-a-half dry spell was a literal dry spell as well—I’ve always been the squishiest, but there was a while when I was so dry that I thought I might be starting menopause. I could just have stocked up on lube, but the idea of always having to was something I wasn’t ready to face, so I got by on spit and determination. From the moment I met J, the dry spell was over. I came home with soaked underpants every time, wetter than in all my adventures. It felt like a reunion, like a second chance at being alive, to be coursing with so much life, to be opening up like a flower. That’s why, no matter how it ended up, I’m glad I let my hoo-ha make the decisions for a while—that part of me (literally and figuratively) has been neglected for so long, I’m glad I didn’t begrudge myself a perilous treat.

When I met him, I was in a delicate but thriving state. It was the first time in my adult life that I could say I was truly happy to be single. I was teaching poetry in my pretty apartment, spending lots of time with my friends and at church, and starting to have faith about where I was going. However, back in February I had to resign from the school district due to acute stress disorder, and I’m still pretty jumpy and prone to panics about once a month. The fact that J. was triggering space issues seemed like it was partly due to my own recent and distant past, but typing the story to you makes it seem less likely that that was so. I am still brokeny, but I think I was scared of him because he was (unintentionally, I’m almost sure) scary—sometimes it’s not that deep.

Anyway, the day after our beautiful but ill-ended flower date, he sent a text apologizing and citing grief. I conceded that not everyone can be besties with their exes the way I (somewhat unhealthily) am with Sweetie. (Currently she and I work at the same three-employee store, she’s my boss, and we spend about an hour each morning processing my feelings about various things. All this with a person I once jumped out of a car to get away from. I know.) I told him to give me some time,  that I’d have to do some soul-searching, so we went to radio silence and a love poem proceeded to pour out of me in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. I felt jangled but fired up. I made art all day that day.

(When I second-drafted the poem with my friends in poetry class, I noticed that it accidentally implied that I wanted to have babies, including feeling the vibration of his Apple watch as “Another little heartbeat.” and, seeing the children in the flower garden wearing glow bracelets, responding with “I want one” meaning but not really meaning the glow bracelets. I hid it pretty well before I posted it, but still, I was like, nicely done, subconscious! Got it.)

Anyway, maybe latent baby-wishes were what inspired me to give him a chance, or his prowess at planning dates, or the cuteness of his texting style. (It was the first time I’ve dated with emoji involved, and I can’t overstate the adorableness of a good morning sunflower rainbow kissy face…) Maybe (probably) it was just plain lust and curiosity. That Sunday, I took a beach trip by myself, to clear my head and make the right decision, and I knew (I always know things best in the ocean, even if it is with a bathing suit on these days.) that if I let him go, I would always wonder if there could have been something real between us. Also I have to admit there was the stupid “What if this is my last chance?” feeling that comes from being socialized to think of myself as ancient at almost-forty-one.

When he asked me a couple days before the date what I was in the mood for, I very brazenly and honestly said red meat. He sent me a couple of menus for fancy places I could dress up for, with very grown-up prices, and I thought, “Is this what regular dating women get all the time? I should start expecting more from life.” That was the central lesson of him, and I hope I can see it through.

The day before our third date, I had an enormous panic attack. The first week of classes is pretty much the only busy time our college bookstore job is stressful, just because of all the extroversion and sometimes-getting-trapped-behind-the-register it requires. The one rude kid on our super-adorable campus found me and I found myself with a pounding headache, unable to work or get myself home. A kind coworker brought me to the campus infirmary, where the nice nurse asked me why I had neither a therapist nor meds. Reasonable question. I got some good rest before the date, but I carried a residue of fear under my pretty black polka-dot dress. (Hello again, red satin heels!)

As I followed my GPS to the suburbs, everything started to look familiar, especially when I turned onto J’s block. Remember way back whenSteampunk Guy pulled over on a quiet suburban street for car sex? THIS RANDOM OKC GUY’S HOUSE WAS THE HOUSE WE PULLED OVER IN FRONT OF. J was one of the nice people I was trying not to wake with my sex yowls three summers ago. I didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one, but I’ve never been more sure that my love life is a labyrinth. So where had I returned to?

I can’t overstate my delight at being properly dated, to be out in the world being shown off in a fancy outfit, being treated like someone who’s someone instead of a dance card afterthought. I ate rare filet mignon and felt like an animal, like a sexy lion, like a woman who’s thoroughly alive. He ordered a good pinot with the inauspicious name “Writer’s Block” but I seem to be overflowing with paragraphs nonetheless.

The conversation turned again to his writing, which was a tricky subject. He’d told me before that he wrote erotic novels, and I (somewhat hypocritically) was scared to read them—I had a feeling we wouldn’t be able to go on if I read his stories, and probably I was right. He confirmed that “Well, let’s just say it’s not all consensual.” I didn’t ask him who in the stories was not consenting to what, only told him I was now A. Scared and B. Too tipsy to flee.

“But sometimes someone just needs a little…push…”

Okay, so this blog wouldn’t exist if that weren’t a little bit true, but I didn’t like hearing it from him. “That’s not up to you. It’s not up to you to decide what someone else needs.”

He rightly pointed out that he’d written it, not done it, but still, I felt so let down and sad. “I just want there to be one guy, one guy, who wants a real person next to him in bed.” Yes, there have been plenty, but I was having tunnel vision, heavy with the burden of trying to keep myself not-raped. In the do-over version, this is where I have the waitress split the check, wait around a bit to sober up, and grouse about it to my friends at brunch the next day. But as he paid the bill, the conversation simmered back to happy somehow and I admitted that what I wanted most in the world was just to tear. Him. Apart. I was getting in that pool, and no stupid thing he said was going to stop me.

Next time: Big moon, hot sex, more stupid things.

Yay, Still Spankable!

It's fantastic to know I'm (sometimes) past the part where I'm scared of sex and ready to both whale on somebody and get whaled on. I'm not supersure in the long term about the FWB-ness of my relationship with Mr. Sweetface (I'm kinda in a place where I want to graduate to romance. And, um, my own stuff.) but I am grateful for the kind, tingly way he ushered me back into the world of sexytimes last night.

Best Calendar Item

Just wanted to celebrate the fact that Mr. Sweetface is coming over Saturday for Mad Men and snuggles. Maybe even spanks, if I'm up to it. Could use a nice release, if my dear psyche will cooperate. Either way, warmth and man-smell, mmmmmm.

Happy Friday: Sweet Hallelujah, a Good Date

So it turns out there’s one guy I’m not currently afraid of: Mr. Sweetface! For the last month or so I haven’t known what to do with in. I was feeling hesitant about poly and we’re both going through a lot at home. For some reason, I was inspired this week to invite him to join me at the Cute Neighborhood Music Thing that my adorable alt-country duo church friends run. I liked the idea of listening to the music with my head on a nice warm shoulder, sidling up to his faintly leather-scented warmth.

So, for the first time in I don’t know how long, I put on makeup after work, curled up the ends of my needs-to-be dyed hair into a flip. I wore red lipstick and my red date-night raincoat, even though it’s still a little too chilly.

The venue’s a historic Mennonite meetinghouse; the Cute Church Couple live on its grounds. There are tall candles in all the windows and Cute Church Girl made vanilla cupcakes from scratch.

When Mr. Sweetface joined me, a band with the working title “Poor No-Name Cat” was playing and I was enjoying the Breakfast at Tiffany’s reference and the soulful lady singer, singing torch songs in French like it was a café in a movie. I was nervous when he came in—we’ve never had a pants-on date before, so I didn’t know what to expect. He took my hand and I did put my head on his shoulder, kind of swooned along to the music and felt a kind of rest I hadn’t felt in a long time. “I missed you,” I whispered, and he said he’d missed me too.

After the show (They booked me to open next month! First time reading poetry in almost two years!) he drove me home and we curled up on the couch and talked about all the things—his family stuff, the Big Therapy Project (to tell a guy that story and have him hold me protectively is it’s own therapy…), our similarly LSD-fond pasts. We compared the perils of teaching with the perils of parenthood--both involve doing one’s best and feeling like a jerk a lot, it turns out. He got deeply emotional talking about his son and it felt good to take care of him a little, to reside for a moment in a story besides my own. It made me feel true and alive, so gratified that he was kind enough to share himself with me.

I told him I’m a ways away from sexytimes--he held me tight and told me to take all the time I need. I said I’d try to make it quick so I could get back to beating his ass before too long.

His second child is due this fall, so I know I can’t expect much time with him, but I liked inviting him into this new world I’m building and that he’s willing to share his world with me too. I think I’m still poly, given how much I like sharing him with my friend, how much I liked cozying up to a date with a wedding ring. The Mystery Family thing didn’t mean I’m not poly, I just meant I prefer sanity, and so far this seems pretty sane.

On the couch, wrapped up in a blanket with my head on his heart and his (newly beardy, yay!) chin on my head, as he told me his secrets, I felt the thing I love to feel the most—simple human connection. Warmth. Life. We’re getting to know each other in a way that makes my pants-on time seem like even more of a blessing.

Though my heart is still heavy with worry about work, it was lovely to go to sleep last night with an unequivocal smile, to have these gorgeous living moments in my heart, to fall asleep and dream in pretty neighborhood love songs.

Heartbreak With the Mystery Family, But Two Wonderful Valentine-Guys

I deserve someone who wants to be in the same room with me. What a crazy thing to have to declare, but here we are.

After the Mystery Man officially entitled me a “Keeper of His Heart” and a member of his family, I’ll admit I was a little hopeful/vulnerable about wanting some Valentine’s Day attention, but what I got was him disappearing mid-conversation before we’d made our date. Earlier in the week I’d gone right out on a limb and asked them all if I could have some time with him during Valentine’s weekend, and though they all said yes, of course, had to ask three times before I even STARTED to get a time. Soon as I was supposedly officially a part of them, I saw myself slip through the cracks of their schedule, just like with the Steampunks. I have to make myself stop loving overbooked guys.

Lacking information or a goodbye before he disappeared for the weekend, I did maybe more Twitter-reading than I should have and found out they were having a party that night, which I hadn’t been told about and definitely hadn’t been invited to. I physically ACHED to be at that party, dancing and hugging and really seeing them. That yearning opened up the cognitive dissonance that made me take the blinders off and start to realize that their version of me being in their “Family” did not necessarily include me ever being in their presence.

So I was hurting but that hurt was ameliorated by a wonderful surprise—Mr. Shiny Eyes! After I called him Friday evening to touch base after our conference adventures, he decided on a whim to drive over (from, it must be said, the same VERY close city where the Mysteries live) and jump into bed with me for Valentines. I was so touched and turned on by the gesture and I loved the visit, especially our morning. We cuddled in bed talking so long before jumping on each other again, it was so intimate, such a time-luxury compared to the (also fantastic) festival sex we’ve enjoyed before.

There was no way, after a gesture and a morning like that, to pretend that I was okay with someone who claims to love me but doesn’t want to see me. After Mr. Shiny Eyes headed home, though I assumed the Mystery Man was busy with some kind of Valentine’s fun, I tried to ask him about the implications of me not having been invited to the party. I thought the problem might get bigger in my head if I waited until our not-really-set-yet date.

I tried to write it as a letter, but probably should have asked (through the cloud of interrupting-shame) for a real conversation—a real 10 –minute talk could have solved the problem, if the problem could in fact be solved at all.

Instead of reassurance, though, or an invite to some future party, (I mean, COME ON, even the most elusive of casual guys invited me to parties at his house!) I was told that the “online contingency” aren’t usually invited and that I would’ve run the risk of making people uncomfortable. This was followed by a litany of things that were higher priorities to them—that old bottom-of-the-pile feeling. I told him I was hurt by that, that I didn’t like being on the outside looking in, that I needed to know I could do normal things like be near the people who purported to love me.

The “online contingency,” fucking OOF.

I didn’t hear from him again and imagined that he had gone back to whatever lovey-dovey permutation of entanglements I was being left out of that day. It was only by chance that and secondhand I found out he’d melted down about what I’d said, and that made it even harder and guiltier to try and communicate.

I did try (on open Twitter, since I felt like I wasn’t being heard on the private channels) but all I got back was an “Are you leaving me?” and no further communication from him. I tried talking to the Lady whose time I’d unwittingly derailed, but it really was moot, since he’d rather break up than face the prospect of having me over.

I really do love him, and it was never just him. I loved the Ladies first and I always wanted to just arrange the whole family in a pile and dive in. More importantly than the sexy stuff, though, I wanted to be their friend, to feel their warmth around me in ordinary, everyday ways. The concept of “online friendship” makes absolutely no sense to me. My love and friendship are physical, even for people I’ve never met, and loving without face-to-face contact is unsafe and ungrounded.

I shouldn’t be in the position of feeling like crazy stalker girl for wanting to included by people who’ve used the word “family” or for wanting to be physically near someone I love. I shouldn’t have to convince anybody that my presence is awesome and should be welcome and encouraged. And (typing this for maybe the millionth time, maybe I’ll learn it) I shouldn’t have to feel like a burden or an interruption every single time I need something. I deserve to be a clear priority, even if my role is smaller than others’.

The ironic thing about this situation is that if somebody else were treating me this way, this family of readers would be the first to get up in arms about it, telling me to get out and that I’m amazing and strong and wonderful and deserve so much better. Without them to tell me that, I’m trying to tell myself.

This “online relationship” business is just complete nonsense, especially from someone who lives two hours away.

Last night, while my nerves were still jangled and my heart was definitely breaking, Mr. Sweetface made it over for our long-awaited play date. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to pay him the proper attention, but it’s amazing what bodies can take care of all on their own. The smell of him, his big pretty eyes, his beautiful naked self across my knee all subby and soft—how lucky am I? When it was his turn to spank me, I cried a little at the end and he gathered me up and told me I was beautiful, told me I’d be okay. The generosity of that easy gesture, the sound of his heartbeat, his strong arms as he wrapped me in the blanket, that’s what I need. That’s what I am.

A few months ago when I was panicking to the Lady of the House about the Steampunks, she said, not unkindly, that I seem to find myself in one crazy story after another, that it might be beneficial to look at the pattern and figure out what attracts me to unavailable people. Since then, I’ve tried to be mindful of only making choices that wouldn’t lead me back to loneliness and panic, so I’m sheepish and sad to have chosen a constellation that, however loveable, has infinitely more barriers up than the Steampunks did. I love them so much and sometimes they’re all I want in this world, but I ignored a million red flags and broke my own very good rules to love them. I don’t know what makes me do this, except that I needed the words “love” and “family” so badly that I would’ve given anything. That’s where I am right now and I’ll keep trying to be careful with it.

Gold Star for a Date That Wasn’t

If he’d been the right sort of guy, it would have been a meet-cute right out of a romantic comedy. I had a headachey time trying to get my prescription updated at my regular glasses place, so I tried another branch and there he was: tall, strong, and cute, a little young but funny and game, promising me no young-guy nonsense. Who giggles through the process of ordering contacts? Me, I guess, and it was fantastic. He wanted me to stay until he got off work in an hour, but I gave him my number and went off to finish my errands.

He seemed really excited to see me and we made a plan to get together Sunday night. I was curious to see what would happen. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for sexytimes, but a real date seemed like just the thing.

But by now I recognize the tactics involved in angling for a couch date. He didn’t make any clear plan on where to take me, he texted “You’re so much fun, it won’t matter what we do.” I told him I wanted to go out and do something, but he suggested coming over and watching a movie. When I mentioned that there’s a movie theater near my house, he didn’t text again. I was happy to put my PJs on and go to bed with my chick-lit book.

Yes, it sucks that he bailed, but I think it’s so cool that I persisted with what I really wanted. In the past, I’ve let guys make every excuse until there they were on my couch, even though I really wanted to be dating. Couch dates are fun but they get so claustrophobic when that’s all there is.

So although I don’t know what I’m really ready for, I know I want real dates and public play. I’m a princessy girl who likes to be shown off, and I think that’s something I deserve. Go me.

Quiet Kittentown but Last Year, This Happened

No kink to report in kittentown this week--life's been about rest and  lots of really great talking.

This time last year, though, the winner and still champion for best date happened. It still makes me feel really happy to think about.

Real Date/Car Sex With Steampunk Guy, Part One

Real Date/Car Sex With Steampunk Guy

Yes friends, I’m sure there are many very deep and soul-searching paragraphs to come about my ongoing divorce process, but I hope you don’t mind if I indulge myself with this awesome sex story first.

I have to admit, Steampunk Guy listens. After our last couch-date, I’d asked if we could do something out in the world. By the time a fortnight rolled around, I had so much going on that I would’ve gladly stayed in again, but it was a nice surprise when he found an evening and asked me to meet him at a gastropub midway between my house and his. I should probably stop being surprised when guys I'm fucking treat me decently, but really it did kind of knock me out.

Much as I enjoy putting on clothes that only stay on for ten minutes, I loved picking out an outfit that would stay on. I was excited about the idea of kissing him out in the world and more nervous than I’d been for the previous two times.

Bless the suburbs and their parking lots, because any activity I do not have parallel park for is a good one. He looked so cute sitting at the bar waiting for me, a little dressed up as usual in a buttons-down shirt and blue old-timey vest, reading a book. I sat down next to him and kissed him hello. He put his hand on my leg and squeezed, digging his fingers in. I felt giggly elation and animal warmth. My pal.

And then he took the wind out of my sails a little, worrying that we wouldn’t work anymore now that I’m single-ish. He’s worried that I’ll need him to be a crutch during the divorce process, but (still high on the relief of deciding and doing the right thing for Sweetie and myself) I’d never felt less needy in my life. I was certainly a lot more self-possessed than I’d been a fortnight ago. It’s the first time in my adult life that I’m Not Looking for Something Serious  and it’s scary, yes, but also kind of exhilarating.

“We’ll see, okay?” He said ominously.

I could have gone with the little twinge of rejection I felt, gotten sad and gone home right then, but I’m proud that I didn’t.

“I’m not really interested in proving to anybody that I’m not needy.” I said. I told him I don’t expect husband guy to be along until I have time to heal, and that I sure didn’t expect it to be him. He still seemed wary (in the short time since making the decision to divorce, this is only one of the varieties of divorce-cooties responses I’ve experienced) but we Muppeted on to other topics.

He’s been reading me (Even posts that are not about him! Be still my heart!) so I set out to try and find out some paragraphs-worth about him. He told me lots of endearing stuff about family and travel—enough stories to make meaningless sex kinda tough to pull off.

After we were done with drinks and dessert, we went on a little walk around the neighborhood. There was a gorgeous sunset and the fireflies were just coming out. The fireflies gave me a stabby feeling for Sweetie—it’s hard knowing how far I am from being ready for something that deep again. That was actually the second bad Sweetie-pang of the night. The first was when I realized we wouldn’t have our pre-date rituals anymore. No more “Kiss me before I put my lipstick on.” No more Sweetie programming my destination into the GPS. It’s not gonna be easy.

Pangs notwithstanding, I liked walking along with Steampunk Guy, holding hands until they got too sweaty. He chatted to me about the books he’d been reading, something with paleontology and the lost city of Atlantis. I listened in a wine-fuzzy haze, wondering what would happen next, if the end of the street would be the end of the evening or if I was somehow gonna get into his pants. I’d asked if we could go to a park and make out like teenagers but he was being so much of a pal that it was hard to read the situation. I couldn’t tell if he’d already phased me out for the divorce-cooties, and I was ready (but also not ready) to graciously let him go.

Next: I get into his pants.

Wish Me Luck!

On Sunday, the Gentleman is taking me to the art museum for our second date. Strangely, it marks the first time in over a decade that a guy has actually picked me up for a date. I'll take my gold stars where I can get 'em.