Still I'm lonely. But partnered people can be lonely too. And have grief from their relationships. I don't have.
55 isn't dead yet.
My last love turned out to be lying about his age, identity, and I replayed the victim song. Was I lying too? About what I wanted? Or thought I deserved?
That was many years ago. Yup, many years. It's taken me longer and longer to heal from heartbreaks. Each time longer. And older.
Then again sometimes I think it's taken me 55 years to figure out what I want. Woah. To recover from violence and treacherous love, unravel the tangles of my psyche and, thread by thread, weave something new. Now I've figured out I want someone as smart and as fun as I am. Plus tells the truth. Someone who can talk the world in two word sentences.
This life now is fine. My two children are happy, prospering, loving people. My work is so satisfying, I work with supportive colleagues for a pretty healthy organization. I have amazing friends. I make plenty of money, for the first time in my life.
Still I wish. But don't we all?
I don't want to throw this out there like a hook for catching the biggest fish. But I do.
I don't really know what it would be like to catch that fish. Live with it. The stink of it, the nourishment of its flesh, the banality of feeding it everyday. But it would be sweet, still.
A fish that swims in someone else's pond. Who chooses to be there. With a loving family. Part of what makes it the biggest fish is that it is capable of this kind of thing: loving like that. It's not actually a fish to be caught, anyway. Anyway, there are plenty of fish in the sea, right? So I come up with new strategies for catching them. Sexier lures, tastier bait, colder waters. Hope.
This is me writing after a glass of red wine. Hahaha. And I think it's kind of funny to write for a blog that rarely gets read. Kind of nice. Like a journal. A private thing.
