My car had a tantrum yesterday and refused to start for me this morning. Lovely.
So I find myself taking an unplanned break from the office, and I’m sitting in my dealership’s waiting (forever) area. I dug my headphones out of my purse to listen to Carolina Liar and drown out the obnoxious beeping of the cell phone keys from the very busy texter next-door.
I roamed onto the sales floor, looking for Bicep Boy, the muscle-head from my former gym whose arms used to make me blush and send me into a sexual frenzy on the treadmill. Still adorable and charming, he’s the GM at the dealership and doing quite well for himself. He led with sweet cheek-kissing and flirty conversation and said farewell with a tight good-bye hug that pressed my breasts hard against his chest. I tried to remain nonchalant while he dipped a toe in the “potential hook-up” waters. Nearly 35, he’s most capable, but I can’t shake the sad ghosts of emotional disconnect.
Maybe I do need to take up a boy toy while I’m waiting for my prince.