Saturday, May 2, 2009

She Loves Me...She Loves Me Not

I'm sitting here smearing orange marmalade on a loaf of seven grain bread, thinking about the day and appreciating the fact that I lived about twelve hours of sanity and a crepe with Nutella and vanilla ice-cream. Jordan's packed and ready to go. I won't be sleeping tomorrow night.

Saturday, I hung out with my surrogate little sister who I've been teaching since she was five years old. She's smarter than her English professor and unfortunately, knows it. Love that girl. I knew she was cool when all of the other little girls dressed up as princesses for Carnival and she came to class wearing a Ninja costume. Balls. When you have balls at five years old...look out!

So, when she told me that a guy she met at the gym sent her a love poem that he had created of his own spontaneous love and admiration for her, I looked at her and said, "Oh God, HE DIDN'T!!" She said, "Oh yeah, he did." Poor guy never had a shot. There are some girly girls who love romantic poetry, live in lahdeedah land and allow purple dreamy clouds to cover their eyes...and then, there are girls like us. Although, I, at least, would have said, "Thank you, that was so sweet!" She said nothing. Nothing. Poor guy.

Some, know all the right things to say, are capable of juggling four women in a single night and still look in the mirror at the end of the day to flex their muscles. Other guys...MEN, take risks, and listen to a woman because they really want to know her and what makes her happy. Rare.

I was talking to my friend last week about relationships and love. He has been single for a while and always says he wants to meet a woman he can talk to, go to a movie with and have wild sex with, who will go home without being asked. I think that once you are used to living alone and juggling four women, having the freedom to choose whether to be in company or not becomes too much of a commodity to risk exchanging for a healthy, normal, functional relationship.

So, maybe Luca was right when he said that a thirty-eight year old woman has more of a chance of being blown up by a terrorist than ever finding love again.


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