Exotic, familiar

I ran into Leif Ericson on Saturday. It was inevitable but traumatic, and I'm so glad that my friend M. was with me when it happened. He looked the same but even skinnier, still like a cross between the David statue and Gumby but a bit more on the Gumby side on that particular day, and still beautiful. He came over and talked to me graciously and pretended not to notice that I initially tried to hide behind my hat and sunglasses to avoid him. It made me really sad to see him, and I thought about him a lot all weekend.

Seeing him reminded me of how much I liked his exoticness. I've always had a thing for exotic men, ever since I was five and fell for the son of my soccer captain, who had olive skin and sleepy dark eyes that were constantly half-closed. (These days, we're Facebook friends and it appears that he works in the porn industry.)  I loved how Leif looked so exotic, almost like he wasn't really human, like a character from the film Avatar. I loved how his parents were from two different continents, neither of them North America. I loved how his house didn't follow any of the normal rules of a house, like having rooms and ceilings and doors.

But there's something to be said for the familiar, too. And that's where the Young Hottie lands: squarely in familiar terrain. There's especially something to be said for familiar when Familiar likes you and wants to see you two nights in a row and stops by to bring bubble wrap, because even though you didn't tell him you needed it, he figured it out when you told him about the huge pottery order you received. And when Familiar doesn't have weird relationship issues (at least that you know about so far).

I don't have butterflies yet, but I do have a solid, warm feeling when I think about Young Hottie. So, I think he may be in need of a new blog name, something less objectifying. Suggestions?

A walk in the park

I was only half-listening as my sister and my friend M. made plans to meet for breakfast last weekend, but gradually some of the details started to sink in.

"Ok, so we'll meet at the bakery and grab breakfast. What time?"

"Dunno... How about 10?"

At that point I had to interject.

"Guys," I interrupted, "sorry, but I'm going to have to put the kibosh on this. I have a date at the bakery at 10. So you're going to have to find another spot to eat breakfast."

"Oh shoot. But that's the only place that serves gluten-free goodies," protested M., who is in the midst of an elimination diet.

"What if we meet there at 9?" suggested my sister.

"Yes, and then we can decide whether or not to leave by 10, or hang around a bit and take a look at the Young Hottie," replied M.

So I was relieved when I arrived at the bakery a few minutes after 10, did a scan of the room, and saw no sign of my friends. Young Hottie and I grabbed a couple of baked goods and headed into the park. At the first intersection, he suggested we walk down an obscure path I had never noticed before.

Not ten minutes later, I heard a snort coming from down the path from us, and when I looked up who should I see sauntering toward me but my sister and M, giggling and averting their eyes from me. I followed suit, and thankfully my date was too busy chatting to notice anything amiss.

Sigh. The hazards of dating local.

Nipping it in the flower

Slinky and I went shopping this weekend. 

I tried on a pair of mid-rise jeans, and was horrified by the result: I called her into my dressing room and lifted my shirt up to share my shame. "Look! Not only does my muffin top stick out, but it's also starting to spill over. And the worst part is, it's lopsided!"

"Tell me about it," she said sympathetically. "Maybe this is what 30-something looks like. It could keep getting worse from here on out."

"In that case, we need to nip this in the bud!" I said. 

"Do you really think "the bud" is the way to describe where we're at?"

"You're right," I amended, "We need to nip this in the fully blooming flower!"

We made a plan of action: Exercise most days. Portion control. Eliminate foods like bacon, beer and ice cream; cut down on egg yolks and bread. 

Later, we planned our evening, debating whether we should follow through on our plan to make salted caramels from scratch. "We don't have a candy thermometer, so it could be tricky. Maybe we could hold off on the caramels and make blueberry scones instead. I'd just need to pick up some heavy cream," Slinky suggested.

"I've got some really great beer I can bring over," I contributed. 

Considering how long it took us to realize the disconnect between these two conversations, I'd say we've got a steep learning curve ahead of us. 

In any case, I did manage to slither my way into, and then purchase, a pair of (low-rise) size 24 jeans with some very funky seams, which I wore on Date #2 with the young hottie. And I looked good, if I do say so myself. 

Post-date, I'm sitting on the couch with my top button undone.

Kick me if I start acting crazy

A couple of weeks ago, Leif Ericson disappeared from my gchat list.

"He blocked me," I informed my friends. "Can you believe it? And I thought he meant it when he said he'd like to get coffee at some point. Clearly, he hates me and wishes he'd never met me. I mean, he could have just hidden me. But no, he had to go all the way and block me."

"Ouch," they agreed. "That's really hurtful."

or,

"Maybe it's for the best. After all, you'll stop thinking about him this way."

For a few days, I stared obsessively at the names on my gchat list every time I signed in. Finally, about two weeks later, Leif reappeared one day.

Last week, I joined Community Boating.

"Have you run into Leif yet?" my friends asked.

"Not yet," I said. "I check whether he's online before I leave. I figure if he's online, he can't be boating."

"But how can you tell if he's online if he blocked you?"

"Oh, uh. It turns out he didn't block me. I was just being crazy. I'm planning to stop being crazy now, though."