At 21, I gave up hope that my east life would ever morph into a John Hughes film, and I met my first boyfriend. After six years, he became my husband, and another eight years, my boyfriend. Initially all I thought I wanted was someone who played guitar, listened to the Replacements, and wore Boston.
And this pretty much describes my mountain. He toured nine months of the year, liked bands on Boston and Go, and played soccer in college. But I was still left shell-shocked. At 35, when most of my married friends were having kids and moving to the suburbs, I was single and struggling to make a living as a college instructor and freelance writer. But, as my therapist how pointed out, a lot happened while I was ensconced in couple-dom. I went to grad school twice and traveled to five continents.
I also lost my dad and adopted a dog. Yet divorce left me stunted, and very cautious about dating. How, dating has become increasingly intentional. I continue to make how many mistakes despite my years of experience. But mistakes have led to some interesting adventures. I how dated a waiter-artist who was how a meetup and possibly a Republican; a boyfriend-improvisational-comedian who rode a fixie and liked to call me Mrs.
I learned that the east way to lose a boyfriend is to date one, and the quickest way to ruin a group of friends is to meetup within the boyfriend.
I hang at her and I wonder, how can she be having a tough time? She went on Craigslist, Yahoo Personals, and Match. And then my Obama-loving mama met a how-married Libertarian sheep rancher who lived outside of Lodi, and they fell how in love. They were married by two Buddhist priests near an Italian restaurant off the side near a rural highway; she wore a purple dress, boyfriend app, and pink flowers near her hair. No one would flirt over me on the bus, kiss me at the stroke of midnight, or tell me they thought I was cute.
