It’s been a minute. I’ve been on my staycation, catching up on some rest, actually getting to see the Wendy Williams Show and watching as many Baby Daddy DNA trash shows as possible.
I hate the Baby Daddy DNA shows, but I love them just as much, and then I contemplate a career in medical billing and coding or becoming a culinary artist, because those commercials running non stop surely make it look good.
The thing about staycations is, you can do things like see a matinee in the middle of the day, get waxed, plucked and pummaced, and do whatever you please and the next day you can do it all over.
I actually didn’t realize how much I rush, until I was in the grocery store on Monday. It was like, slow down, you’ve no place to go and when you get home, you still aren’t going to finish writing your novel or clean. So. Just. Chill.
Being on a staycation also makes you realize how much working is a big part of your life and how you can’t stay in the house all day and watch T.V. because you will lose your mind. My heart goes out to unemployed people who feel the way I do. It has to be a very difficult thing. So I totally appreciate having a job. I appreciate having a job and vacation time even more, because I sincerely needed a break and a recharge.
Back to the thought of this post.
As I mentioned previously, there is an older man in the mix with intentions to gain my affection. By older, I mean a good 15 years, as I stated before in another post.
To make myself feel better, I think that Carrie and Big (of Sex and the City, duh) had an age gap, but maybe the gap I have is more Natasha and Big and in the end it didn’t work.
Ok, I’m going to stop thinking about it.
But it’s not so much the age. I really don’t think about it when I’m with him. We have great conversations and a lot of fun.
He’s courteous and kind and a hard worker and has streaks of mischief. He’s also handsome. He becomes more handsome to me the more I see him and the more I like someone, the more attractive they become. I think he looks a good six years younger than what he really is.
So with all of this said, I was doing everything in the book at the end of the night to not kiss him.
I’ve had good, bad and downright ugly goodnight kisses.
I don’t think he’d be a bad kisser, but I can tell he’s into me and if I kiss him and like it, down the bunny hole we go.
Will this mean I’m officially ready to move on? Am I ready to build something with someone again?
I complained about being lonely.
Here he is. Gift horse. All up in his grillpiece with a flashlight…
In a twist of irony, my ex-fiance texted me during dinner with good news that he landed his dream job.
Now if you read deeper into this, you could say, oh. He got his dream job. He’s finally getting himself together. I mean isn’t that why your engagement dissolved, because he said he was afraid that he couldn’t be a good husband and he didn’t have it all together yet?
But I’m way past reading deeper into that text and hoping for a happy reunion. For that, I am proud and thankful. Six months ago, that may not have been the case.
I told a friend, there must have been a tingling in his testicles just when I laughed at my date’s joke or started flirting. Little sirens went off in his balls. “She’s about to forget about you! She’s about to forget about you. Really!”
So back to me.
At the end of the night, I did everything in the book. The long hugs, the burying my face in his chest, the patented head turn away from his face, the cheek brush.
But I couldn’t kiss him.
I love this new getting to know you, innocent phase before emotions and hormones get out of hand. I know it can’t last forever, but we are only on the second date anyway. Is it wrong for me to drag it out?
If I kissed him, I knew I’d see stars and fireworks. We got along too well for him to have clam mouth. I could see a slight hint of disappointment in his eyes, but being the respectful, charming man he is, he quickly shrugged it off and told me what a wonderful time he had, and that I gave the best hugs.
Besides. I was drunk. I broke the early dating rule. I didn’t eat enough, stupid, stupid. But we didn’t want to leave the restaurant and stop talking, so we figured we should order, just one more and drink it slow. I barely got through four sips and I knew I was done. I told him I’m so sorry for wasting the drink. Being the sweetheart he is, he simply said, well you only had that one crab cake and it’s great that you know when to just stop.
Awwww. He should be a politician.
I don’t think it’s fair to kiss someone for the first time when you are drunk.
I distinctly remember my first kisses from the men I loved the most and usually they just couldn’t take waiting on me anymore and they snatched me up and I was done.
One of my most favorite first (early in the relationship) kisses came from one of my shortest beaus (5″8). I was walking out of a restaurant with a friend to our car and he trailed behind us and just as I was going to hop in the car, he looped his finger in my belt, pulled me into him and went for it. Our first, first kiss we were in a club. And actually it was ladies night, in the south. Long Island Iced teas were a dollar, and all of a sudden he grabbed me on the dance floor and planted one on me so wonderful, I couldn’t hear the pulsating music around me. It was like being submerged under water and then splashing to the surface when it was over, trying to catch my breath. To this day, he will say, “I thought you were either going to slap me, or get with it. Either way, I knew I just had to go for it.”
Damn I’m a liar. My best kisses involve me being inebriated. LOL. Too funny.
I’m thinking of my other favorite first kiss. This one involved my ex-fiance and we were watching the holy grail of love movies for educated black people, “Love Jones.” He offered to get up and pour us another drink, started making his way to the kitchen, stopping instantly. He made and about-face, marched over to me, grabbed my face and laid one on me. “Love Jones” turned into “Meet the Adults of Charlie Brown.” Whomp, whomp, whaaa, whaaa, whaaa.
When I hugged that man last night, I swear, my right leg shot up like I was welcoming him home from war in an iconic photograph. Old school. I even caught myself and put it down. But it shot right back up like a reflex exam.
So my friends.
Am I a nut job? Am I not really over my ex? Do I have a right to be scared of actually liking this man? I need some help.
Something tells me I need to apply my staycation philosophy of not rushing and taking the long way, to my love life. What’s that? Do I have a love life? Gee whiz!