I managed to relax on my trip, despite my high-strung travel partner’s idiosyncrasies. I love my best friend to death. She is my rock – my cheerleader – my motivator – my shoulder to cry on – my go-to girl. But traveling with her wasn’t easy, and I’m pretty sure she would say the same about me. Vacations can be tricky. If you’re having sex with the person in your bed every night, you can probably overlook some of the stupid little things that bug you about them. If you’re not… well then… the stupid little things remain and on top of it all, you’re frustrated because you’re not getting laid.
The Caribbean Sea has a magical effect on me, and this trip was no exception. I worked out every day. I ate healthfully. I drank a couple of margaritas. I read books. I listened to my favorite songs on my iPod over and over (Carolina Liar). I tuned out the world. I connected with the water and the sand and the sun and escaped into some sexy fantasies in my mind.
It was good.
Now I’m home, and I’m mom and dad and gardener and maid and accountant and chef and pet owner and taxi driver and employee and household decision-maker.
And I’m still not getting laid.
I was ravenous yesterday and subconsciously tried to quiet my insides with food. Fortunately, I realized what I was doing and I managed to gather some semblance of self-control before I ate myself to a stomach ache. This morning, I got up, and I did what I do – I showered, got my son ready for camp, made breakfast for both of us and ran out the door at the last minute. I raced to work, sat through a meeting, then went to a weight-lifting class at the gym because my calendar told me to. Now I’m spitting out cherry pits and watching daylight return after a crazy afternoon storm came out of nowhere and turned the sky black.
And I’m trying not to think about the fact that I’m not getting laid.
Of course, I don’t just want sex – I want everything that goes along with it in most girls’ books. I want love, passion, caring, sharing… all that elusive bullshit. I want romantic dinner dates and smiling eyes and fast-beating hearts. I want teasing and touching and giggling. I want unspoken promises and the hope of a future. I want someone else to take charge sometimes, so I can just sit back and follow obediently with blind trust that it’s all in my best interest.
The Belgian has been initiating rounds of hide-and-seek with romantic text messages out of the blue, only to disappear again. I can’t begin to imagine what’s going on there. The games are wearing on me and I’m losing patience, despite the fact that I still love him. Accepting the things I cannot change…
Mr. Nice Guy sort of disappeared, too, after our vacation plans went awry. His passiveness is not attractive to me.
Mr. Z, however, seems to have enjoyed our visit in Indiana and is planning to make his way to NJ before the end of the summer to see me. He told me he would come, and by god, I think he just might keep his word. He is kind and sweet with a masculine 6’2″ frame and sexy long hair, but we live in very different worlds, so I’m not sure how that will pan out. As much as I
hate despise abhor the idea of someone sharing my space, I admit I’m thinking it might be kind of nice to have him around for a little while.
Tempting as it is, I’ve resisted the urge to return to the online dating world. I’m pretty sure I will activate my profile again one day, but the process sucks the energy and life out of this eternal optimist, and I’m tired. I need to build up some strength for that. I certainly have plenty to keep me busy for now… preparing kids for school next month, settling everyone into new schedules, organizing the house, and losing those last few stubborn pounds.
But I still wish I were getting laid.
What can I say about that? I’m in my fabulous fucking forties, you know.