Releasing a resigned sigh, I turn out the light and tell myself to go to sleep.
And end up spending the next three hours tossing and turning because I can’t stop thinking about LatinLover80 and that sexy smile and how much I’d like to run my tongue across those luscious lips.
Days pass. I’ve forced myself to put LatinLover80 on the back burner. Why? I don’t want to look overeager for one. Two, I’m awkward as hell. Three, he’s out of my league. Too hot for a woman with three kids and a husband, even if we are on the fast-track to divorce. We’re not there yet, so how is that fair to LatinLover80? I find myself questioning what business I even have looking for another man when I have yet to scrape my soon-to-be ex off my shoe like a piece of old gum.
Then I reason with myself that it’s just talking. It’s not like I’m interviewing him for the position of Husband Number Two. Hell, I don’t think I want to get married ever again after this one. So why am I holding back?
I’ll tell you why. I’m scared. Scared of all of this. Scared of being the single mom, of being used goods, of being boring, too set in her ways, too mom-like, too inexperienced, too tired, too everything. I am so out of my element that it’s almost easier to crawl into a hole and never come out again than reenter life in the real world without the shelter of the person who was supposed to be my lifelong companion.
But that’s just not my reality anymore. The reality is that Iama single mom who is tired and set in her ways, who knows what she wants and who doesn’t always feel like the prettiest or sexiest woman out there. Hell, I know I’m not. I have a little extra pudge in my hips and stretchmarks…everywhere. My boobs are saggy from breast feeding. I can tell myself every day that I’ve earned my stripes, that I love my body because it was my babies’ home for the first few months of their life, but...
The truth is, I often mourn the loss of my teenage body that I didn’t appreciate when I had it. But it is what it is, and it could always be worse, right? I remind myself that I’ve lost a lot of weight and that in itself makes me feel a bit better. Fitting into a size six had always been a pipe dream before. Not now. And that reminds me that I need to work on my self-confidence a little more. Which also gives me another excuse to add to the list. How can I date someone if my confidence is in the toilet? How would that be fair to them?
But maybe, just maybe, a date is exactly what I need.
I’m reminded of what my friend, Jean, told me the other day. “You need to get back out there. You’re gorgeous. The total package, and men are going to be tripping over themselves to have you. I’m telling you, once you go on a date, you’re going to realize you have options.”
I just nodded at the time, not really believing her. People who love you have to say those things. They’re biased. But Jean might have a point.
A point that just days ago I was on board with.Get back on the horse, Julie.
So, after I shower and get the kids their breakfast, I sit down at the computer, sort through my emails, and peek at the message from LatinLover80 again. At those two little words that make my stomach flutter.
And my fingers touch the keyboard. Press down on the keys.
Hey. You’re not too bad yourself. ;)
I hit enter and immediately click to a fresh screen as if running away, although my butt hasn’t left the chair. Insecurities and doubt plague me, and at the same time, I’m giddy with anticipation. Will he answer back? It’s been days. What if he’s already moved on, lost interest? Is it weird to have waited so long to respond?
I check my email again because somehow that feels less stalker-ish than going to the dating website itself to see if I have any new messages. I do.
LatinLover80 messaged you.
I have a mini heart attack.
OMG. That means he’s online. Right now. If I reply back now, he’ll know I am too. But, of course, he knows I’m online. Ijustmessaged him.
Taking a deep breath, I return to the site to read it. He’s observant. Sees that I don’t get on the site often. I confirm as much, telling him the truth: I prefer texting over messaging. It’s faster and easier for me.
He jokingly asks me for my number, but I don’t think he’s joking at all. I think he’s waiting to see what I’ll do. Testing the water.
I consider it. Tell myself no. He could be a stalker. A serial killer. A rapist. Hell, he could be a damned human trafficker. Someone I don’t want having my number.
But he could also be a nice guy, someone I want to get to know. And Idowant to get to know him. Plus, if he gets weird, I could always delete his number and block him. Right?
I talk myself in circles until I give in, and before I know it, I’ve sent him my number.
Dear God, what am I doing?
I’m being reckless. Naïve, even, though I know going in the pitfalls that I could be facing. No matter how well you try to plan for everything that could go wrong, there’s always the possibility of running into the things you didn’t plan for.
That’s life, though, a crapshoot of what-ifs. And what’s life worth if you don’t live it a little, take a little risk now and then?Throw caution to the wind, Julie!
My phone goes off not a minute later, and I stare at it—vibrating in my pajama pocket where it lays against the top of my thigh—silently freaking out.
I can’t ignore that. A text is immediate, no delays. That’s the beauty of technology, of cell phones—they're always on, and they’re always on you. I immediately think maybe I should have kept it to the emails. At least then I had an excuse.
But that option is well and truly gone now.