A couple of weeks ago, a “recently widowed” gentleman who seemed not-obviously-loony viewed my profile but did not contact me. I read his profile, noted his relative non-looniness, and responded that if he cared to write after he had been widowed for a full year, I would like to hear from him. I just did my obligatory log-in [to keep my membership active], and he was still the only one who had viewed me since the last time I cleared the counter. I clicked on his profile, and he’s headed toward marriage with somebody. Already! He does not state in his profile how recently-widowed he is, and having dated a widower year before last I know from experience that they are way different than divorced men. [I am not necessarily impressed with the difference, LOL.]
So I guess I’m taking back my assessment of his non-looniness. While recognizing that grief and loneliness can make the best of us do stupid things. On the one hand, I applaud the willingness of widowed men to remarry; I don’t see a lot of that happening with the divorced brethren I know. On the other hand, how much of this rush to remarriage is inspiration, and how much sheer loneliness or the need to scratch an itch?
Yes, I believe in love. Yes, I believe in commitment. Yes, I believe that at the right time and in the right place, I will remarry. And yes, I am so thankful that I have outwaited that irrepressible urge to merge, so that my head has a chance of winning when it thumb-wrestles with my heart.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled knitting. Behold, a Stripedy Stocking.
And a Child’s French Sock. Hey, Middlest, this is seven out of the requisite eleven pattern repeats before I start turning the heel!
Two items in my life over which I have at least the illusion of control. Oh, that and my typing. Julie had this on her semi-private blog.
And I have to say that the way the words feed, slows me down. They give you about a line and a half of words, and there is this hesitation like the fourth and eighth beats of salsa where you Do Not Move, when I am ready before the new words are. [Salsa is counted 1 2 3 stop 5 6 7 stop. It looks like uninterrupted movement to those who haven’t tried it, but that pause gives subtle emphasis to the lateral motion of one’s hips. I love Latin dance nearly as much as I love East Coast Swing, because it appears to have been invented solely for the purpose of making women look and feel good.]
And why is it that mothers turn grey? This, for one. And a slightly different version, here. I called LittleBit on her cell phone on my way to work and left her a message, along the lines of, “This is what happened in Bedford this week. Thank you for being smarter than that.” Not to say that she or her sisters or I haven’t done something equally stupid and lived to tell about it. I was an incredibly naive 14-year-old. I am so glad that Al Gore had not yet invented the Internet when I was young and hormonal.
Speaking of political figures, Mr. Obama has paid two visits that I know of to BigD in the past week. Last week with a motorcade, causing one of my co-workers to remark that the last time we had a motorcade, it didn’t go well. The day after his first visit, That Woman also came to town. A motorcycle policeman died while escorting her [accelerated, lost control, hit a concrete wall, and died]. Which I guess bears out my friend’s observation, but not in the national-mourning sense of 1963. I think that Mr. Obama’s visit yesterday was without incident, except for an unrelated fatality involving an 18-wheeler that apparently went over the railing and landed on a car. [My guess? some hotshot in a Lexus or a BMW cut him off; I was nearly creamed three times one morning this week by BMW drivers. The Dallas Morning News says otherwise.]
Quick, Lynn, think of something positive. 79 wpm on Speedtest. No, not positive enough.
This isn’t it.
OK, how about this, the two fortunes from my cookies last night? “Your genuine talents will lead you to success” [could be a good thing, depending upon how one defines success] and “You will soon be the center of attention” [Mormon mother of five arrested for speaking her mind].
What about this parade of flamingos?