Three months out from my Involuntary Independence Day, I was sitting in the bar of a restaurant I've frequented for a number of years waiting for my dinner to arrive when a man sitting just around the corner from me struck up a conversation.
I was rather tired and it failed to register right away that he was hitting on me. I'm unaccustomed to that and unfortunately, because I've spent a lifetime downplaying the possibility romantic interest in someone to avoid being humiliated, the dime tends to not drop until well after the moment has passed.
What I take it to mean is that there may be a 50/50 chance that I won't die alone and be eaten by wild dogs (by the way, the newest Bridget Jones movie is out this summer) after all. I guess we'll see.
In the meantime, I've reacquired my sometime-stalker thirteen-years-ago ex, who played D1 football at an SEC school and scares the crap out of me. His grandmother fell and broke her hip, recalling him to the Great Bluegrass State from Nevada, where he's been marinating in constant dissolution for a couple of years. She's doing well in physical rehab; when she can toddle along at her house, I fervently hope he'll go back west. So far, he has peed on my front porch twice when I wasn't home, like a dog marking its territory. I am not kidding.
The joys of being single...