Burning Fire

Burning fire in my stomach speaks of emptiness in my heart. Dreams swirl in my subconscious…dreams of conflict and forceful resolution. I awaken to reality, to life unchanged.

Yet fall approaches in an unwavering march of timeliness. The sun rises and sets in rhythm and change does come, slowly. The dry twigs and brown grass and limp, lifeless flowers in my garden raise their weary heads to the cooler evening temperatures, still waiting for the rain that will bring them back to life. I’ve given up on keeping them healthy. My energies have turned inward to cozying up my house for the long winter ahead.

For the past three weekends, I’ve scraped wallpaper off my kitchen walls, readying for the new onslaught of color and freshness waiting in gallons aligning the floors and tightly compacted in silent rolls. The unspoken hope accompanying the feathering of my nest does not escape me. The need which drives me, which pushes my feet on the elliptical machine, which silences the hunger in my gut as each day of this diet thunders into the next, is correlative to the slick turn of my wrist as I ready my home; the home that houses my body and the home that houses my heart.

I have a purpose to my pursuits. I have a purpose. I get sick to my stomach thinking about the purpose, but it drives me past the point of exhaustion, past the point of introspection, past the point of no return. The six months of letting go have passed, and now it is time to get back to the drawing board, to not sit back and let the time slide by, because if I do that, if I become complacent, the years will glide into decades and before you know it, I will sit in the church pew of my sons’ weddings, tears of regret leaking down my face as I watch what could have been unfold for my sons.

I want to dance at their weddings. I want to have a heart filled with joy and love and not one ounce of regret. Were I to succumb to the fear, to the potential pain of rejection, and not try…that would be the deepest regret of all.

Six Months of Celibacy-Revisited

Today marks the end of my six months of celibacy. I’m 30 pounds lighter, a leaner, meaner, love machine. I have been literally exercising my butt off, five days a week, an hour a day on Larry the Elliptical, with the resistance set at 12. Six months ago today, I swore off all physical relationships and have focused on improving my inner health and peace of mind.

Four weeks ago, I went back on Match.com, hoping to find an antidote for when the six months ended. I winked at several men. A few winked back at me. I corresponded with three of them. I met one of them two weeks ago…he did not like me. I met another one last Friday. He liked me. He liked me so much that he invited me to go hiking with him last Sunday. He kissed me. I kissed him. He liked kissing me. I liked kissing him. He called me a few times this week. I called him back. I emailed him, he emailed me back.

I have a dinner date with him tomorrow.

In the meantime, I’m starting to put together my book, Diary of a Middle Aged Sex Goddess. This is what I have as an opening chapter, and as the ending. The stories in the middle will have to wait for the hard cover.

Tell me what you think. MWR-G’s mother said it was boring. Sigh. Ya can’t please everyone.

Diary of a Middle Aged Sex Goddess

Chapter 1

In hindsight, I should have known that trouble lie ahead when the judge went to pound the gavel at my divorce hearing, and hit his thumb instead of the desk. His eyes briefly met mine as he winced in pain, glaring accusingly at me, as if it were I who had placed his hand strategically under the wooden mallet. Men have been looking at me like that my whole life. As a sex goddess, one would think that men would be looking at me with carnal longing, and believe me, it often starts out that way, but by the end of the proceedings, the look the judge gave me was oh so familiar.

Disappointment doesn’t come easy at any age. The men I’ve met post divorce have all been disappointed. Some are disappointed because I don’t fancy them. Others are disappointed that I don’t give them enough of a chance to chase. Mostly, they are disappointed because the Madonna/whore thing makes being a guy a really hard job, and being a girl an impossible one.

I was never any good at the Madonna thing although you wouldn’t know it to look at me. I lean towards plus size clothing, with periodic forays into Misses when the mood strikes me and I choose to shed my baby fat. It always seems to find its way back into my drawers, though. I’m pretty, in a girl next door kind of way. Mostly, I look the part of the Madonna because I’m an accountant and dress the part.

It’s the whore part of the Madonna/whore thing that gets me into trouble. See, I’m a sex goddess because I have the heart of a whore and the face and body of a woman you wouldn’t look at twice. It confuses the guys that find me. Takes them unawares. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Mostly it simply causes me heartache.

Life since my divorce has not been easy. I have friends who are divorced. I have friends who were remarried within a year or two after their divorces, sometimes to the only guy they dated. Simple. Tidy. Ordinarily, I like simple and tidy, but it’s never like that for me in the romance department.

I dated one guy per year for the first three years post divorce. One guy. Per year. Banker Guy was the man who got away 20 years earlier, who had broken my 21 year old heart and married the woman he left me for. It was reassuring to reconnect with him, safely showing me that I could feel passion for someone other than my ex husband. When that ended, I spent a year with Church Guy learning how to salsa dance and be the perfect Cuban wife…problem was, I wasn’t Cuban. The third year I spent chasing and lusting after Rebound Guy, a man from my divorce support group. I was three years post divorce, he was still in the middle of his. He went back to his wife, finally divorcing her two years later.

In my fourth year post divorce, I fell in love with Magic Guy, a man who was dating someone else. Because of that, I felt compelled to also date others. Being an accountant, balance is important to me. I joined Match.com, Yahoo Personals and eHarmony.

Being in love with someone, being head over heals in love, makes it difficult to find the man of your dreams, so during that fourth year, despite the fact that I went on many first dates, I never went on more than three dates with any of them. It was a disappointing time for both them and for me. Of course, I was hoping that Magic Guy would dump the other girl and focus his attention on me, but it didn’t work out that way. In fact, just the opposite happened.

Those years weren’t so bad. I loved and allowed myself to be loved. They were just practice years for my stint as a sex goddess. Year five after my divorce is where this story begins. After Magic Guy broke my heart two days before Christmas, after vengefully spending New Year’s Eve in the arms of a man I didn’t want to be with, I was determined to find love in the new year. I posted a new profile on Match.com. This is what it said:

I'm waiting for the right one, the one who gets me, laughs at my jokes, tells a few good ones of his own. I'm not in any hurry. I've learned patience on this post divorce path, although I kicked and screamed during the lesson.

I have discerned the basics about who I think I would fit, and who I think would fit me. If you enjoy a discussion about the Iraq War and Evolution, and don't mind a respectful differing viewpoint, wink at me.

If calm companionship, creative cooperation, and chores made easy with conversation and mutually enjoyable music reminds you of the reason why you paid for Match.com, rest assured that those activities motivated me as well.

If you know the names of the different full moons, and can read the constellations or if you have confident knowledge of any obscure subject, send me an email.

If you watch a butterfly and wonder at the aerodynamic qualities, and pick up a caterpillar and marvel at its impending transformation, drop me a line.

If you can be patient while I slip the spider out the door rather than stomping on it, perhaps we should talk.

If you are proud of what you have accomplished and look forward to pursuing your dreams, we might have even more in common.

If you smile at a clever turn of phrase, we are a match.

If you’ve ever been in love, if you remember the euphoria, if passionate kisses invade your dreams, tell me when we meet for coffee.

If you appreciate tasty dishes, and know how to rustle up a few of your own, we should cook together sometime.

If you like what you see in the mirror, I want to hear from you.

If you remember what it was like to fall in love with your newborn babies, and cherish those memories, look me up.

If dogs wag their tails at you and children seek your company, if your heart is as open as your mind, if your life is good just as it is, and romance is window dressing for your soul, if you read this and are intrigued, let me know.

If you are these things, it's likely the attraction will be mutual.

I was deluged with emails, winks and attention. I read the profiles of the prospective suitors and perused my past interactions with the opposite sex. I’d broken two hearts, and I’d had my heart broken twice. I had always thought that the man for me would need to be at least as educated as me, at least as smart as me, at least as accomplished as me, at least as pretty as me, at least as liberal as me. In retrospect, however, the men I had fallen for were not all these things. In fact, the ones who had stolen my heart most completely were very few of these things. Granted, they were all smart, but I don’t think any of them were more intelligent than I. Accomplishment comes in many forms, and my heart had been opened to many differing levels of accomplishment. Beauty is most definitely in the eye of the beholder because I thought all four of them were the most handsome men in the world, even though few of my friends shared my sentiment.

I decided, as I sat there reviewing the Match.com profiles, that I would spent an hour with any guy that wanted to spend an hour with me, provided they gave me some indication of an ability to carry on a decent conversation. I decided to disregard income, education, age, affluence, upbringing and intelligence. I’d give them all a chance.

During my fifth year post divorce, I went on 53 first dates. Not only that, but I went on 25 second dates, 15 third dates, 7 fourth dates, 5 fifth dates, and 2 sixth dates, for a grand total of 108 dates. Also during that year, my ex husband renounced responsibility for our three children, my mother had major surgery and moved into a nursing home, my dog died, I took my children on a cruise, I started a blog and I wrote a novel.

This is my story.

Final Chapter

What. You expected a wedding? This isn’t a Sex in the City ending. This is real life; the real life drama that unfolds everyday, in the bedrooms and kitchens of millions of single moms across the globe. Oh, love is out there, all right. Finding it takes courage, tenacity, brains, brawn and beauty. Even with all of the above, sometimes, it just doesn’t happen.

I didn’t do so bad, though. I have a couple best friends out of the deal. What would I do without SAHD Guy and MWR Guy? And don’t forget Wedding Guy. We still keep in touch. These beautiful men are my buffer against the harsh realities of the rest of the world, and the harsh realities of my own heart. Love does not give command performances. She dances into lives when she is good and ready, when the music suits her, usually when you’ve got other plans for your life.

Welcome her when she knocks on your door. Hold your beloved close and be grateful when she comes to call.

You never know how long she’ll stay.

Cleaning House

Cleaning House

Age wages an ugly war, but the alternative is equally unpalatable. Time marches on in infinite formation. How long must we wait for our heart’s desire? What treasure waits just around the corner for those patient enough to look? My heart is heavy; heavy with desire, heavy with need, heavy with the mantle of loneliness. My six months of celibacy ends in eleven days, though for all I know, it may stretch into decades.

My beauty wanes in the light of the setting sun. Gone is the blush from my checks, the luster to my thinning hair. Lines crease my eyes and my lips. Dimples of resilient fat pucker the insides of my thighs. The twinkle in my bright eyes has dimmed to a lack luster sheen. My infectious laugh has succumbed to the virus of hormonal depression.

I am sad.

I am cleaning my own house.

I fired my cleaning person in July after coming home to a house that had barely been touched by a dustrag or a vacuum, but the three twenties and a ten that I had left for her beneath my pillow were gone as usual. I decided to go it alone.

What is really sad is that I have been enjoying cleaning my own stuff. I look forward to the gleam of glass and brass that greets me after just a few minutes of wiping and polishing. I clean thoroughly and revel in the job well done. I am vigilant for missed places and during the week, will grab the sponge, making a mental note to add the spot to my weekly repertoire.

I’ve done some big projects as well. Washing windows. Cleaning the garage and the shed. Tackling the bookshelf that housed videos and children’s books, accumulated for decades and dusted just as often. It is almost bare now, save for a few treasured memories bound in plastic or cardboard, held onto in case I ever have grandchildren, or for the remote day when my children want to revisit their childhood.

My desire to move, to keep moving, to stay busy, to be productive, has meaning and connection to the diet and to the celibacy, I’m sure. I haven’t quite connected the dots yet, but I know they are there.

I couldn’t keep MWR-G. I couldn’t stay the course, and I don’t know why. I rejected him, yet again, and he yelped in pain, galloping back to his nest in Lexington, shaking with anger. I lost a friend. I grabbed for the golden ring of romance and lost the silver chalice of friendship. I took a risk and so did he, and we both ended up losing.

Karma is a powerful thing. I reject, therefore, I will be rejected. I am rejected, therefore I will reject. Both hurt like hell, but almost everyone can admit, the pain of being rejected cuts far deeper. Cuts into parts one forgot one had.

After ending it with MWR-G, I re-upped with Match.com. Last Saturday, I started talking with a man. A powerful energy man, full of life, full of laughter, a perfect smile and an easy going disposition. We had many telephone conversations where I could barely get a word in edgewise, which was quite an unfamiliar feeling. We were at odds politically, but had such similar childhood experiences, such similar succeed against all odds backgrounds, and were born just six days apart. I was hopeful.

We met for coffee a week later and talked for three hours. It seemed like minutes. He hugged me goodnight, the hug of friendship, not of passion. My spirits took a nose dive. He had broad shoulders and big hands, hair down to his waist. I was attracted to him, he was not attracted to me. He confirmed it in an email the next day.

I gotta be more careful.

I need to be extra, extra careful where I earn and lose my karma points. This game is growing old, has been in the convalescent home for a couple years now. I want the game to be over.

I have another date on Friday. I’m letting him pursue me. I am nonchalant and breezy. He likes women with meat on their bones, and I certainly am that. Meat. Muscle. All this work at the gym is paying off, and my muscles are taut under my admittedly still a bit fleshy skin. I have the foundation, though. I’m getting there. My clothes that have hung limp and still in my closet for the past two years are now slipping easily into place. It won’t be that much longer now. The big butt will be gone and with it the insecurity about my appearance.

Instead, I’ll be able to focus on all my other insecurities; those ones I try so hard to mask behind the false bravado.

I’m cleaning up, all right. Cleaning up and cleaning out. I’m feathering my nest, dusting the other side of my closet. The right side of the medicine chest is empty. Two clothing rods are bare. The sheets are clean and the left side of the big bed is free of junk.

I’d really like some help in messing it all up again.