Are You The One For Me?

Are You The One For Me?

I've deleted all the dating apps from my phone. I feel so much relief! I might use those again--when I've completed my latest batch of grief work, cleaned my apartment, and become existentially sound once again. Could be six months? Six years? Six hundred? Not too concerned at the moment. I've got crafts! I've got a new therapy group! No time to sit at a crappy cafe listening to a dude who smells like a medicinal powder, or is embracing his new awesome single life, or likes to ride bikes around Town Lake and has a lot of warts. Or all three. 

However, I have some regrets about leaving dating apps before I got to use some sweet profiles. Maybe next time! Here are some that never got the life they deserved: 

 

Happy Feet

Happy Feet

A little bit clumsy, a little bit rock 'n' roll. Looking for a fine fella who likes lady feet in all conditions.  


Fibroid Fox

Fibroid Fox

Perimenopausal gal looking to party! Once I get my hysterectomy, I won't be having sex for a couple of months. Act now to get in on my last hurrah before my laparoscopic trans-vaginal surgery. 


CB handle DITCH WITCH

CB handle DITCH WITCH

Traveling thru ATX! Looking for a place to park my RV for a night or two. Hook ups appreciated (ha ha). 


Ready to love you. On my meds. 

Ready to love you. On my meds. 

When I look back at the intimate relationships I've had with men, I can see a few patterns.  I love making men happy. I have fun with men, spoiling them with my attention, teasing and playing with them, having dirty, hot sex with them. I love their attention--maybe more than anything else they might give me. Sometimes, I want a husband. I want to play house and be taken care of and take care of them. I want to make a home with a man. Sometimes, I want nothing of the sort. I want my freedom and privacy. I want hot sex and attention, when I want it, but not much more. The latest thing I learned about my relationships with men--a neurotic problem that has affected my relationships badly--is an almost insatiable desire to have a man see my grief and pain, to be my witness. But strangely, I have often picked men who are incapable or unwilling to do that. Of course, these men are copies of my father-- a narcissist who refused to see me, who emotionally abandoned me after my mother died when I was five. The wonderful thing is, however, my realization that it's not a man's job to do that, to be the witness of my grief, to heal the wounds from my father. It's my own job, and luckily, I am capable of doing it. You host. No cops. No Anal. 

Optimism

Optimism