Well, that new relationship I thought I started last month has already crashed and burned, making the last 30 days for me both one of the best and worst in the history books. And like the polite Midwestern gal I am, I blame myself. I carb loaded on endorphins, hope and fairy tales and jumped into the pool way too soon. “No swimming directly after meals!” they told us in fifth grade health class, the same class I’d learn about the birds and bees and tampons and mood swings.
But I digress.
A friend told me last night to “Let it go” and “Get back on that dating horse.” First of all, NEVER quote Disney movies to me, especially that decrepit piece of snot tissue unless you’re referencing my cold, dead heart. And secondly, if you even bring me a horse I’m supposed to jump back onto, I will put it it down like they do at Churchill Downs and not even use a sheet to shield your eyes.
Is it bad to envy the zombies in “Walking Dead”? They don’t suffer from broken hearts, they eat them.
It got me thinking, though, that I should write a book about my highly successful dating life. Here are some titles I’m thinking of:
- “Forty and Failing: A Love Story”
- “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, I am from Xanadu”
- “A Dummy’s Guide to Fucking Things Up”
- “Moby’s a Dick and So am I”
- “Gone with the Wind: The Last 30 Days”
- “She’s Just Not that into You”
- “Love: No You’re Never Gonna Get It”
- “One Hundred Years of Solitude”
- “Great Expectations, Great Regrets”
- “For Whom the Belle Trolls”
- “The Hungry, Clingy, Smothering, Dickwad Caterpillar”