I have 88 days left and then this blog project will be complete, and I’m facing it through a cloud of gray melancholy .
“Will you be sad when it’s done, Mom,” Sammy asked me today.
“I think I will,” I said. “It’s become part of my day. My friend wants me to start a dating blog.” He laughed.
The writing part would be an incredibly therapeutic release for me, fun even, but the dates, not so much. It makes my palms sweaty just thinking about it. I imagine knowing the date is coming up, planning what I will wear, waiting for the time to go on that day, and walking into a restaurant or whatever to meet my date. It’s just overwhelming. Dear Lord it’s overwhelming.
I feel like having a companion would be nice sometimes, and maybe it would take some of the pressure off the boys. Why do I hold such an aversion to having a simple dinner or drink with someone? Why can’t I just breathe and live and stop being a baby? Why am I so freaked out about the concept? This is why:
- Do I wear nail polish even though I never wear it? If so, what color?
- Am I supposed to talk about my past?
- Who pays!?
- Do we talk politics?
- Will we meet online?
- So I have to get an app?
- When I walk into the restaurant, how will I know where to go?
I could go on. And why does eating always have to be part of it?
I’ve been through enough in life to know that it’s quite short, and that little things are not so scary, but this one is. It’s very scary actually. I used to run into burning buildings, but this seems worse.
So, it’s a thought. I would much rather, however, write about someone else’s dating experience. Any takers?
Teresa Forester Adams 