Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationships – past and present and future. I feel a little bit sad.
I want to believe that my marriage to Mr. N/A turned me into a temporary cynic, because I don’t want to believe that this is all there is. I hope I’m just having a hard time opening up my heart to meet that one person who will be my Happy Ever After. I hope he’s not a ghost. I hope I don’t end up like my mother, who finds contentment in her easy chair with her Tivo and her remote when she’s not nursing her ailing girlfriends.
I want to love someone before I die who’s capable of loving me back until he does. And I want him to cut the fucking grass.
There’s no shortage of email in my online-dating inbox; I’m just not attracted to any of the senders.
- Jersey guys suck
- I’m afraid
- It’s not my time
- I would rather be alone
- I’m too busy being a single working mother
- It’s my remote
- Jersey guys suck (this one bears repeating)
In the meantime, I have my relationship with food. Food doesn’t betray me. It’s always available, and if I get tired of one thing, I have a million other choices. I can get creative and make something new – customized, just the way I like it. I can indulge or walk away. I can satisfy every kind of mood with food, at least temporarily.
But I never, ever, have food in my bed. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.