My hands are tied. (not literally) I want to tell you about a date I had, but I can't. I told him about this blog. I'm a blabber mouth. My stupid ego made me. How can I make fun of him now? He's not for me, but he is a sweet guy. I can't diss him when I know he's going to read it. Apparently, I have scrupples. Funny word...scrupples. Anyway, I have them so no jabs about him here.
I did meet someone on line who is fun and energetic and good-looking. I confessed in my profile that I'm addicted to Utz dark pretzels and he wrapped them up in Christmas wrapping and gave them to me at our first meeting last week. Nice, nice start. I'm seeing him again tomorrow night. He also knows about this blog...Hello Daniel!
Okay...that's it. No more about dating until I have something concrete to say. It did shock me and must report back to you that there are lots and lots of 50 something men out there who when asked if they want children answer, "Undecided."
Are they nuts? Well, they certainly aren't having them with me...my eggs are dead. Well, even if they were alive - that ship has passed.
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day passed too. Now at holiday three without Jimmy it's more comfortable to entertain and celebrate with many of the same friends from "before." I strive to incorporate yesterday with today. Life moves along and and I float with it staying on course to the future while I peek back almost to ask permission.
The permission thing reminds me of my old (and fired) bereavement shrink, Gene. She told me that when a widow wants to remarry she goes to the cemetery to ask permission. I told her that made sense to me...and she said, "Really? Well, isn't it interesting that none of the husbands ever say "no."
Good one, Gene....but I still don't miss you.