Friday, February 27, 2009

I hope I feel like I did

A friend I met at the singles summit called recently. Told me the event had been mentioned in a NY Times article. THE NEW YORK FUCKING TIMES, the real news. Gist of the piece was how even in - especially in - troubled economic times, singles are flocking to paid events in groves, signing up for internet dating sites in record numbers. I get it, because isolation is a soul killer whether single, married or in between.

At lunch today, a cute girl friend (one who can wear frosty pink lip gloss and look amazing in it) asked how the firemen auction went. She was somewhat surprised to hear of my affinity for smoky men in yellow puffy pants; she works for the fire department, has a front-row center seat, the sieve to weed out potential assholes and the married. Sometimes us girls need a wingman, a side arm, a fully competent and wholly confident woman to allow us to preen all the while knowing a safety net awaits.

“Hook a sister up,” I said, then said again. I can find trouble all on my own, and have. Your pre-screening is priceless and, should he prove a dud, I pinky swear it won’t be held against you. I wouldn’t blame you if I end up biting down hard on a faux pearl.

My Friday night tonight, a lovely dinner at home for one. I’d have gladly made more for good company, the kind with the deep voice and big hands.

Just company.

I don’t want to get married. There’s no clock, biological or other, ticking like a tell tale heart. But somehow, even though I never really had it and never really pursued it, I have a fever for the flavor of the comfort, that invisible thread between people, being special without dancing like a clown for attention, any attention.

And yes, crazy good, emotional sex that lasts for hours, from seduction to sweat, the act and the chemicals. The staying over. The feeling of warm next to you under the afghan, leg on exposed leg. Even I can't express how wonderful it would be to climb the stairs right now and find that waiting. It's not.

There’s no better grace than a hand reaching for yours on the walk from the car.

"I’m not afraid to die, I’m not afraid to live, and when I’m flat on my back I hope to feel like I did."

5 comments:

Don said...

Comfort and that familiar grace are addicting: a hello, a fireplace, a pot of stew. One can get lost in it and spend years uncertain of the way out or whether even to look. Much better to know who you are.

Paula Light said...

NICE post! I know what you mean and hope you find that. I think you will. Don't settle. :)

Crys said...

Really? You don't want to get married? I may be an aspiring Elizabeth Taylor all up in here with my two (failed) marriages --- but I still believe in that kind of love.

But I've been called naive lately (by myself, mostly), or else downright stupid. So...it could be me.

Maybe I need to start listening to ladies like you. :)

Jodie Kash said...

@Don – I’m not an addict, but a long taste of comfort is something I’m craving more and more.

@Paula – I’m not sure what I’m looking for, other than bigger joy, constant motion. I’m living my 20’s in my 40’s and there aren’t as many people on the playground to play tag with. They’re all home having stew.

@Crys – Fair enough, never say never. I do often envy the sweet older couples I see at the grocery, he in a jaunty cap and well dressed, calling her “Mother.” And they hold hands while they shop. That sounds nice. Oh, and I’ve been called lots of things too, by myself and others. Only some of them partly true ;)

And more truth, yeah, I'd like to get swept up in all of. I'm a rogue and a romantic. Who knew?

Cody Bones said...

Last week at Church, I saw a couple in their 80's just bitching up a storm at each other. I was just imagining that it went like " That's it, you have been pissing me off for 50 fuckin years. I'm Out" I turned to my wife and said "There's us" We both crumbled with laughter, luckily Fr. Bill hadn't started in on the homily yet.

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