The first date was fun, without a doubt. However, after having been married to one man for 15 years, I can’t remember how this works.
While I am certainly not shy, I found myself less talkative than normal. Everyone who knows me knows that I speak my mind – blatantly. My integrity and up-front form of honesty is my trademark. However, as nervous as I was, I felt like I was picking and choosing my thoughts and words before speaking. Imagine that – me thinking before I speak! Ok, so maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.
When he leaned in for the post-date kiss, I quickly gave him a smack on the lips, the cheek, and pulled away. I was so damned nervous. And scared. It was only a short year ago that I found out my (now ex) husband was secretly spending time with “the cockroach” (my heartfelt nickname for the other woman, in his other life).
I don’t want to get hurt (again). I don’t want a relationship, I don’t think. I would however, like to have fun, enjoy common interests and activities – and yes, have sex. Please – and thank you.
And we agreed to see each other again. The invitation for a second date, accepted.
I have decided that I don’t have to do anything I am uncomfortable doing. I am a strong, independent, beautiful, sexy, voluptuous woman – despite still reeling from those last several years of constant insults about everything – but most especially my weight. The last five years were the most difficult, but now I am free. And I am moving on. I am dating.
This particular guy made it a point to shower compliments upon me, and my curves. He thinks I am sexy. Of course, my lower-than-normal self-esteem wanted to believe there was a hidden agenda. Seriously? Seriously! Then I got to thinking. The conversation with myself went something like this:
Enjoy the hell out of this, Tish! Remember who you are! Forget the past, and the jackass who couldn’t love you for who you are. Move on already! Get your shine on. Be proud. Be beautiful! Be real. And maybe consider this… maybe, just maybe, there are some men in this world who truly appreciate the beauty of the renaissance woman, the Rembrandt. And if one has found you, then at the very least…you’re going to get laid. And if there is a hidden agenda, you’re going to get laid.
Ok, problem solved. I’m flirting my beautiful forty-something ass off. At least that is what we called it when I was twenty-something. I’m not sure what the hell I am doing. And if I could find the word, it would most certainly be a dirty one. Taboo.
Bullshit. Let’s go with mature fun.