The road to love is paved with rocks. I can’t speak to intentions..just those heavy leaden formations of various shapes and sizes that cause me to stub my romance toe every single time.
Part of the problem for me and my daughter/matchmaker is that I’m kind of a weird girl. Okay, maybe, a really weird girl. I cannot play the game or even watch it anymore.
I mean this literally and figuratively. When the Super Bowl was on I was sitting in total ignorance enjoying a plant based meal and sipping a Mimosa,(this one had blueberries-delicious) and had no earthly idea there was anything else happening in households and bars across the US. (that’s lower 48 to my friends up north or the states to the crew in Europe). I was thanking the parking fairies and car karma for allowing me an awesome spot. Clueless.
So here’s where I’m going, who is going to want to hang out with a twig eater who won’t go to football or even watch it on television, who also won’t go to violent movies, laugh at jokes about people of color or gay people, doesn’t think non human animals are inferior in any way and is also, by the way, not rich but works a lot? I mean how gorgeous would I have to be?
I walked out of “Apocalypse Now”. I really did. That was in 1978. I haven’t changed. That guy never asked me out again. Worst part: I had no idea what went wrong.
As to football–I’m a lot like my friend who said he just couldn’t take it and “left after the first inning.”
All forms of manliness commit suicide in my presence. I met a guy who told me how well trained his big dogs were, “..maybe we could go out, I could bring them by and you could meet them?” My response, “I have a rabbit.” Yea, never heard from him again either.
I’m crushing this thing. If being undatable was a thing I’d be on Oprah and have a book deal. Adoring crowds would clap. Instead I’m in my plush pink robe and flannels writing to you. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I’m picking out my sensible shoes and preparing for what my mother and her sisters whispered about behind the back of the organist at church with the peaceful face and sneakers with her cotton dress, “spinster” .
Still, there is a faint hope or two. My matchmaker/daughter says I haven’t made a strong enough list of pros and cons. My Dharma sister, Canada Carmen says enjoy the ride and practice detachment, which is great advice just all around, and my dear old Brit says, ‘Don’t worry darling, I love you. ‘
Yet candidate #1, turned candidate #0 is gone and no one else has come around. The damned Onion Guy, may he have to peel them for eternity with no cool water or mushrooms, garlic or wine and accidentally wipe his face, has been entirely dead air, total radio silence. Still, I kind of like those guys in the way that they are real. We didn’t work out but it’s because we didn’t lie to each other. So in a way, that’s a win.
Things don’t always work out. Sometimes you stub your toe. Sometimes you do it over and over and buy shoes with stronger support, get a pedicure and hit the road again.
The road to romance is paved with rocks. But if it is also paved with good intentions then the trip is worth the trip.
And, come to think of it, the woman who played the organ had a peaceful face and her sneakers were really comfortable with that cotton dress. Maybe she went hiking after church. Maybe she was happy.