You will survive

There’s a duet by Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown playing on Top 40 radio with this chorus: But how do you expect me to live alone with just me; ‘Cause my world revolves around you It’s so hard for me to breathe . . .

Poor Jordin. It’s a bitch trying to breathe without any air. I like the song, No Air — it’s wonderful ear candy. But I find the sentiment behind songs of that ilk annoying. It’s certainly not a new theme in pop music — there are lots of songs with a similar bent. Like Harry Nillson’s Without You, which may be the ultimate broken-heart ballad — I can’t live if living is without you.

Who says size doesn’t matter?

So Friday I had a last-minute lunch date with a guy I “met” online. He was funny and smart, like his page said. But I already knew that from chatting on the phone with him for a bit. We seemed to be comfortable together right off the bat, which I think happens with people of a certain age who don’t see a first date as a life-or-death situation. The lunch hour flew by.

This Guy described himself online as “cute.” I wouldn’t exactly describe him that way but I’m not so worried about looks. Funny and smart are more important to me. Although I do wonder at someone mentioning their looks when there are pictures to go with the words.

eDating? eFrustrating More Like It

About eight months after my former husband moved out of our house, I’d found a townhome to buy, packed up my stuff, filling a room with items for the Goodwill and gotten over myself. I was initially devastated but when I realized things were out of my control and I could never repair the damage, I decided to move on. I started thinking of finding a nice man to go out with. Online dating seemed like a good, efficient method of locating a suitable man. Both a sister and brother of mine encouraged me to try it. Each had done so with some success.

Be Careful What You Wish For

As a single woman, I’ve been rather eager the past few months to meet a man to go out with. I’m not interested in getting serious with anyone, whatever that means. I really just want to have some fun and companionship. At a party a couple of weeks ago, I was set to meet This Guy, the brother of a friend’s friend. It turned out to be a night of good food, good music, plenty of beer and a designated driver at a starry location out in the country. I pretty much threw myself at This Guy, making a tasteful pass at him so he’d have no doubts about whether I was interested. The Friday following the party, we went to a bar on the beach and had a couple of glasses of wine and flirted a lot. Maybe this is my middle age talking, but I liked how comfortable I was with him. Then, on Sunday night, we went to dinner and had an equally nice time. When he took me home, he said he’d call me.I heard from him again on Friday afternoon. We ended up going to dinner, then took the long way back to my house. Saturday I had a great day with friends that included yoga, a gyro sandwich and a local arts fest. On the way home, I persuaded myself to go clothes shopping — a necessary evil for me. By the time I was carrying the bags in the door, I was pooped. When This Guy called me Saturday late in the afternoon to ask what I was up to, I told him I was doing laundry and reading. I declined his dinner invitation because, well, because I wanted to do my laundry and read my book. After chatting a few more minutes, we hung up. An hour or so later, he called again. He was headed home from a work errand and was nearby. He asked me about dinner again and I think I was a bit short in reiterating my intent to stay in that night. I think I hurt his feelings, which made me feel bad. He’s a nice guy who wanted to take me to dinner. We ended up going out and having a very nice time. By the time I hung up the phone with him Sunday evening, I realized things had escalated. One sign of escalation is when he calls and doesn’t identify himself but you know who it is. And when you hang up, he doesn’t say I’ll call you soon; he says I’ll call you tomorrow. And then he does.

Playing Hard to Get?

In August I got a divorce. I didn’t want a divorce but I got one nonetheless. By the time it was official, it had been nine months since my former husband moved out of our home. It had been 11 months since he announced he wanted to move out. And it had been 15 months since he asked me one Friday evening if I was happy. (Yes, I was at the time but the question struck fear in my heart and pretty much marked the beginning of the end for us.)