Okay, so this is all a grand experiment. If we count adulthood as beginning at age 18, Tuba Player has spent fewer than two years of that single. That's right. The first relationship lasted nine years, the second, 14. And quite frankly, that first year of adulthood was spent trying to get dates with college boys, so I don't really think it counts. (My former college crush Bart may disagree, but that's because it makes a good story at cocktail parties he attends with his partner.)
This week, however, I've dived into singlehood headfirst. (And since I'm afraid of landing on my head, and thus unable to dive or do advanced yoga poses, this is quite a feat.) I have twice gone out to the neighborhood gay bar and have posted profiles on two different dating sites.
Initial results have been mixed, but I'm optimistic. My first night at the bar, I met a few entertaining people. Last night wasn't so fabulous, as no one spoke to me. The bar manager even put the free pizza and wings he'd had delivered on the table I was seated at, suggesting I looked like I could use some company. As all current and former fat girls know, there is nothing worse than sitting at the table with the food. It looks like you dragged a chair up to the buffet.
Future outings will involve a beard (hear that, straight female friends?) and less alcohol, which only makes me maudlin. Fortunately, the closest shops selling Ben & Jerry's close around 10 or 11, so temptation was resisted.
On the online front, I've made a few contacts, so we shall see. Can't hurt to have coffee and make a few new friends of the lesbionic persuasion.
My greatest challenge: to avoid the drug that is infatuation. Ah, that first flush of interest, then desire. The endorphins charging through one's veins. But how to keep those feelings from blinding one to important realities?