You'll be happy to know my emotional rollercoaster has smoothed out a bit, without me even having to hit the Xanax! Of course, I've been toting it around everywhere I go, and can't leave the house without it - but that's immaterial. It's merely rattling around in my purse for security.



It's like that time I was training for a triathlon in Lake Washington seven years ago. After a rather embarrassing episode, which we shall not dwell on, which involved a panic attack, me being hauled back to shore on some Baywatch-like water scooter driven by a hot female lifeguard who scolded me for swimming out past the shallow end when I was so clearly incompetent, I realized that swimming out into open water, alone, was not the brightest thing for me to do.



Not because I wasn't a good swimmer, mind you. I was - and - am, a sturdy and strong in the water, if rather slow. My sister got the swimming genes in the family - though let's not forget Li'l Sis - how I beat you in our impromptu little race in Hawaii!



No, it's just that I am prone to overthink things. Like what am I doing out here a quarter mile from shore where I could forget how to swim and sink like a stone without anyone seeing me?! Or, to use another, more recent example, what am I doing here being 36 and unmarried without a single prospect and signing a contract with a literary agent who will no doubt find out I am a fraud!!



Whereas, if I just swam along, living in the moment, I would feel how strong and capable I was, how fit and healthy, without noticing the vastness of space around me in which I could so easily drown.



So,I enlisted a male admirer - with a canoe - for my final triathlon training session. For a full half-mile, he paddled beside me, and for a full half-mile I swam along, knowing the canoe was there if I needed it, and therefore never needing it.

And the triathlon? Well, there were at least a dozen "rescue" canoes lining the swim route, and although I did have to stop and cling to one in a brief panic when some bitch kicked me in the face trying to get her fat a*s ahead of mine, I nonetheless completed the race in a very respectable 500th place out of a 1000 (or something like that.)



Thus ends the extended metaphor about canoes and Xanax.



Now, moving on. For those of you who wanted the "details" of my weekend with Sporty Architect Boy, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I know one of the worst crimes a writer can commit is to fail to deliver on the details of a story, but I think the problem here is that there was never a story in the first place.



I tried to make a story out of it. Because I was bored, and disappointed with The Captain, but it's not a story, it's more of an anecdote. An example of what not to do when dating - that is, get involved with someone just because they are attractive and you like the attention.



Ans so, the details aren't even interesting enough for me to relate, and if I were to try to relate them to you, you'd be bored too. So let's move on again, shall we?



In other news, I am now no longer recognizable after my hairdresser went crazy with the gold highlights today. And this was just after I was thinking to myself, maybe I'll go back to my black hair and stop all this money on highlights, which are only damaging to my hair anyway!



Well, maybe next time. At least I look "sun-kissed" for summer, which is just as well, since I doubt I'll be kissing any boys.