I never want to talk about Daniel Boone again. I do not wish to go to Boone, North Carolina. I do not wish to hear about something that's a boon to the economy. I do not want to see Daniel, the tiger from Mr. Rogers.
Keep your fringe and rifle away from me.
So if you emailed or called me, I really appreciate it, but I do not wish to talk about it, is the thing. In case I was not clear on that.
I was driving home from Raleigh Sunday (she says, talking about it) and I realized something. Dating as an old person sucks because you get tired at 10 p.m. and you don't have pert breasts. However, dating as an old person is good because you have the wisdom of experience. At least I do. Because I didn't get married till I was 33 and I had eleventy-fourdred boyfriends before I met Marvin. Mostly they were drawn to my knowledge of numerals.
And as I drove home yesterday, it occurred to me, I have already dated this guy. I mean, not literally. But his type. Daniel Boone is the guy who is really attentive, who makes you feel wonderful and happy and cared for, and then he pulls the rug out. He lets you know he'd REALLY like you if you were just a little...mmmmm...something different. Not sure what. But you don't quite measure up.
Remember this summer when I visited the love of my life guy? Remember how I described him? See above.
You know what I did? I got the hell away from the love of my life guy. And eventually I felt infinitely better about myself. Because I DO measure up. Yes, I have the hair of 17 banshees, but I am a catch, dawgs. I really am. And no one's gonna make me feel like I have to be something more in order to be loved. Eff that.
God, I feel like I just escaped the snake oil salesman with my last 50 cents.
And I was fine until I got home yesterday and Marvin called me. I had called Marvin Friday night because I messed up the sink and couldn't fix it (see above reference to how I am such a catch). Also, I'd like to thank Marvin for the quick response to my plumbing emergency. Noah called. Wanted me to stop getting all the attention with my water and two-by-two animals.
At any rate, my phone rang yesterday, and here was the conversation.
Me: Hello?
Marvin: Hi.
Me: (shakily) Hiiiiii.
Marvin: Are you okay?
Me: BOOOO HOOO HOOOO HOOOO HOOOOOO! HOOOOOO! {sob sob!} HOOOOO! yes! I'm--BOOOOOO HOOOO HOOOOO....
What I did, folks? Was go on a crying jag. A jag. If I were a pill I'd have been a jagged little one. If I were a singer I'd have been Mick Jagger. If I were a TV show? JAG.
Marvin, having known and enjoyed me and my I'm-a-catch personality for 25 years now, merely sat and waited for me to cry it out, there. He really did. He just waited. Which was exactly the right thing to do. And then after an hour and a half of me crying, he said something funny, which made me laugh and then I cried again because no one makes me laugh as much as Marvin does.
And I wasn't crying because of that person who shall not be mentioned here any more. I really wasn't. I mean, I've known that person for four months of my life.
I was crying because I was disappointed. I was crying because someone called me who actually does care about me and I felt safe. I was crying because even though he does care about me it is so.over. I was crying because I thought I was done with all this nonsense. I was crying because I am a year and a half from being a big-boned handsome woman and I'd better hurry up and score someone quickly before my hips really settle.
I don't know, y'all. You are right. Things could be worse. I could be Sting.
On the bright side, I did get to go to the fair Saturday. The best part was when the cobwebs in my girl parts spelled out "Some Pig" and a crowd gathered to look at it.
Sigh.
