The mystery man, the one who I love and think about, has kind of fizzled from my life. On our last date, I made up some excuse and said I wanted to celebrate the Year of the Rat with him. I booked a too-expensive brunch at the River Cafe with a pristine view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Hudson River. A few tables away, I spotted Dick Parsons and a woman who looks like Beyonce (God I wish I had her body!).
I sat there fuming and close to tears because I got the subway directions wrong and had really wanted to give him a surprise. Instead I was forced to set my ego aside and say, "Umm, I need your help."
How many times have I left behind an item of clothing, been late, had to apologize for forgetfulness and being a ditz? What should have been a glorious and happy day over a very expensive brunch was semi-bitter. I sat there and sulked and wondered why I never get the guy I want, why is it that the man who I love isn't available and is a classic commitment-phobic. He wouldn't eat the pecan-flavored oatmeal placed in an eggshell. I’d forgotten that he didn't like eggs, but I didn't care and seethed, "Maybe we should have gone to the pizza place instead." After I said that, he took a bite, but later I felt ashamed knowing very well that I should have been silent instead. There was no humor in my voice; I was about to crack.
Increasingly, finding someone organized and anal becomes important, as I realize that I not only have to search for prince charming, but a prince charming who is Mr. Clean (or maybe someone who is a tax auditor). This limits the kind of men who I will find. This is where ADD eats into my love life. The other day and today, I thought briefly that I might want to just tell the mystery man about my predicament, my disorder, my handicap, and what is a bottom-line pain in the neck. I wonder what he might say, but more disturbingly he rarely asks about me and my life. It leaves me feeling empty and starved as V-day approaches.
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