Damn it. Is there anything more annoying than getting ready to break up with someone and having them postpone your date by an hour? Jesus. People have no f*cking consideration. I mean, I'm dressed to the nines, ready to go, and now what? Twiddle my thumbs? I'm gonna get drunk and lose my nerve, I know it. Just like I did last time.

OK, I am not going to beat myself up over my addiction to boys, sex, drama.



(And doesn't this woman sound like my evil twin?)



I want love, just like every other human being on this godforsaken planet. The problem is, and I have just realized it, I am on the f*cking rebound.



My relationship with SBDB? Rebound. That's why I want what he can't give: constant warmth and affection like I got from Loser before he went to the Bad Place.



OK, take a guess; who am I?



Hot

Cold

Hot

Cold



RIGHT! I am SBDB. Now I am HOT because I'm having s*x with you but now I am COLD because well, I could be out at a bar meeting other women right now (not that I really do because I am not very suave but, who knows, if I weren't with you I COULD be!) Oh, I am not being fair. But who gives a sh*t? I can crucify him if I want for dramatic effect, N'EST-CE-PAS?



Yesterday I saw Loser with his new companion. That made my day, as you can imagine. Especially when I waved and said "HI!" and they both ignored me.



Well excuse me! What have I ever done to THEM except be alive and intimidatingly hot?



I cried afterwards. Cried and cried.



And then I realized that all these boys lo these many months? The LRS and Memphis Boy and The Doctor and SBDB? Rebound rebound rebound rebound. Lookin for love in all the wrong places, lookin for love in all the wrong faces, as they say.



Looking for that thing I lost that's never coming back again. At least not until I sit back, take a break, and let it come to me instead of chasing it frantically down every dark alley in Seattle.



Well, now it's time to look inside myself. And I always make these resolutions about how I'm not gonna date for for a month or a week but it ends up lasting about a day, til the next cute boy asks me out and then I feel bad, like look how weak I am.



So I won't make resolutions. Except to try to overcome my fear. The fear that I'll never find anyone again and die old and alone and childless and that if I just keep dating x,y,z, I'll find that "security" I had just six short months ago and will never be lonely again for the rest of my life of course until x,y,z dies in which case maybe I'll be old and alone but not childless.



Anyway, you get the picture.

For someone who has had continual dates for the last four months; who has had a boy to kiss on every occasion; whose life has been a nonstop whirl of sparkly dresses and designer cocktails; who has a great job; a fabulous apartment; perfect health; tons of friends; who is medicated to the gills; and who is (temporarily) a size 4 due to generous sizing on Banana Republic's part; I feel awfully alone and sorry for myself today. Boo hoo hoo.

Really, you know, I just think Banana Republic made an extra large batch of pants.
Could be a marketing ploy. A pretty good one too, dontchya think?

If dating is a rollercoaster (and it is), I've just hurtled through a corkscrew, screamed my way down a thrilling drop, and hit bottom with my stomach left somewhere behind in Portland. Would someone please let me off, please? But the bored roller-coaster guy has gone home to bed and I seem to be alone into this metal box with no rest in sight, until perhaps it decides to become unhinged and goes flying off into the ether with a groan of metal and a firestorm of sparks, at which point -- who knows? -- maybe I'll go join Willie Wonka and Charlie in that great glass elevator in the sky.

You know that when your biggest pleasure in life is spending $120 on two pairs of pants at Banana Republic that something is missing. Love or religion or good deeds for others or something. But they were size 4 pants. Do you know the last time I wore size 4? Never. Do you know how much, a year ago, I wanted to be a size 4 (or a size 6 or even a size 8 for that matter?)



I think I would trade those two pants size back for a little bit of the good stuff again, you know? But maybe it's something that I gotta make happen, not something that some guy who is magically going to fall in love with me and give me a happy ending like in that hokey "Sweet Home Alabama" movie that I watched on the train and which, in my sleep-deprived, emotional state, made me cry for one hour -- is gonna make happen.



I have enough love inside myself for me and a lot of other people in this world, and maybe it's time I get back to trying to help other people for a while instead of bemoaning my own aching heart. And it I happen to look just a little better doing it in my size 4 low-rider Banana Repuplic pants that will pretty much show my butt crack if I'm not careful, well so be it.

So this weekend I am going on a blind date. In a nearby city. With someone who lives in another, entirely different, city. But that's a story for another day.



The story for today is that I told Silent But Deadly Boy (SBDB) the other day, casually, that I was going away this weekend to aforementioned city. He did not blink an eye, since people from my fair city often travel to aforementioned fair city for fun and relaxation. Nor did he ask, right away, what I was going to do there. Fine. No information given.



Being a woman of conscience, however, I debated how much to tell SBDB, should he question me further. (SBDB, by the way, has reverted to his warm, non-standoffish self because I'm being low-maintenance and he's still salivating over that trump card I played a couple weeks ago .)



Last night, I started to think I might skate by without him ever asking, what exactly, I'd be doing on my trip. An unspoken part of our agreement is that we don't pry into each other's social lives. If the other person has something important to tell us, they'll tell us (we figure). Another part of our agreement is that we can go on dates without telling each other.



But still. If he asked what I was going to do on my trip, I was going to tell him. "Going on a date." Just like that. Given the situation, it seemed like the right thing to do. And all during dinner last night, I waited for him to ask. I was prepared (sort of) to say it. But he didn't ask.



Until later, that is. As we were lying around all relaxed, he said, making idle conversaion, "So, what's goin' on down in (blank city)?"



If I had been strapped to a lie detector right then, I would have been immediately handcuffed and carted off to prison. My heart rate accelerated to 200 beats a minute as I ever-so-calmly said, "Oh, just meeting a friend."



"Oh yeah, which friend?" I thought he might ask.



"Oh yeah, I have a friend down there too," he said instead. Conversation over.



I moved a little farther away from him so he couldn't feel how hard my heart was beating.



Now, technically, I haven't done anything wrong. So why do I feel guilty?