Seventy-two. Aphrodite, don't forget me.
Right now, I am the cheerleader for everyone else's romance. I'm working on setting up friends with other friends and playing confidante for established relationships, watching happy people learn to fall in love with one another or to work out how to make their love last through troubles, and encouraging people to go on dates and risk their hearts, to not be afraid.
And yet, bring up dating to me and I run like a scared little rabbit. Oh, I'm doing it, in baby steps and little efforts, but commitment and serious dating beyond one night here and there are both too frightening for me to handle right now. I want it for myself in theory, but in practice, I'm gunshy.
It was suggested to me today that I'm trying to renew my faith in love by playing helpmeet to everyone else's love affair, and there's a lot of truth in that. I really want to believe again, even if right now the very idea makes all the cynical areas of my mind wake up and start to sneer quietly in their darkened Dorothy Parker and the Vicious Circle corner of my thoughts. There's some kind of disconnect for me to be trying to set people up and to genuinely be hoping for them to find something to last forever, when I almost need to hyperventilate into a paper bag if I get even the hint of someone's serious interest.
I hate these stupid scars and I want to be healed already, even though leaping forward even a little makes them hurt again. I'm supposed to be tougher than this. I'm supposed to be a wild divorcee, devil-may-care and happy in my single state, glad to have moved on. Instead, I wake up some mornings and I look at my single-girl bed and I consider getting a dog. Or cats. Possibly six cats, just to really complete the crazy-cat-lady image of how I feel, except - say it with me - it's not fair to the cats. I watch "Sex and the City" and think "what the fuck ever".
There was a brief selfpitying bout I had about a month and a half ago where I was wailing "no one will ever ever love me again", but that's over. My new brand of selfpity? "Someone's going to love me, and I'm going to fuck it up, so I better hide." Really, I realize I'm a total mess still; if I really cared about someone, I think the smart thing at this point would be backing away from them because of that, even though I doubt I'll stay smart. You know, this would be so much easier if I didn't find one-night stands completely dull and unappealing, although that may be because I never had one. I liked being married; I liked commitment, but it crashed and burned on me. I'm settling for vicariously watching relationships I hope won't do the same. If I'm going to be celibate and creeped out, at least somebody else is gonna get some, god dammit.
I've got several friends of all sexes and sexual orientations that I'm working on getting hooked up yet, however. And none of them are me. Interested parties can IM me. They're all people who can even punctuate a sentence. HOW HOT IS THAT? Ungh, you know you want them.
And yet, bring up dating to me and I run like a scared little rabbit. Oh, I'm doing it, in baby steps and little efforts, but commitment and serious dating beyond one night here and there are both too frightening for me to handle right now. I want it for myself in theory, but in practice, I'm gunshy.
It was suggested to me today that I'm trying to renew my faith in love by playing helpmeet to everyone else's love affair, and there's a lot of truth in that. I really want to believe again, even if right now the very idea makes all the cynical areas of my mind wake up and start to sneer quietly in their darkened Dorothy Parker and the Vicious Circle corner of my thoughts. There's some kind of disconnect for me to be trying to set people up and to genuinely be hoping for them to find something to last forever, when I almost need to hyperventilate into a paper bag if I get even the hint of someone's serious interest.
I hate these stupid scars and I want to be healed already, even though leaping forward even a little makes them hurt again. I'm supposed to be tougher than this. I'm supposed to be a wild divorcee, devil-may-care and happy in my single state, glad to have moved on. Instead, I wake up some mornings and I look at my single-girl bed and I consider getting a dog. Or cats. Possibly six cats, just to really complete the crazy-cat-lady image of how I feel, except - say it with me - it's not fair to the cats. I watch "Sex and the City" and think "what the fuck ever".
There was a brief selfpitying bout I had about a month and a half ago where I was wailing "no one will ever ever love me again", but that's over. My new brand of selfpity? "Someone's going to love me, and I'm going to fuck it up, so I better hide." Really, I realize I'm a total mess still; if I really cared about someone, I think the smart thing at this point would be backing away from them because of that, even though I doubt I'll stay smart. You know, this would be so much easier if I didn't find one-night stands completely dull and unappealing, although that may be because I never had one. I liked being married; I liked commitment, but it crashed and burned on me. I'm settling for vicariously watching relationships I hope won't do the same. If I'm going to be celibate and creeped out, at least somebody else is gonna get some, god dammit.
I've got several friends of all sexes and sexual orientations that I'm working on getting hooked up yet, however. And none of them are me. Interested parties can IM me. They're all people who can even punctuate a sentence. HOW HOT IS THAT? Ungh, you know you want them.