OK. I admit it. I freaked out. Badly. For some stupid reason, yesterday, I went OFF. On my new online Beau. I won’t repeat what I wrote him, because I just don’t want to relive it, but suffice it to say that it ended with “I hate you.” Suffice it to say that he was Mc Shocked.
The funny thing is, I was just getting ready to post my “Update of Mc Mushy”, which went something like this:
“In other news, my online Beau and I are still getting along swimmingly. We’ve had minor skirmishes (perhaps due to rising mutual frustration with the distance between us) but we’re sailing through them somehow. I won’t lie. I can’t wait to meet him. And when I think of our meeting, my breath get shallow, my nipples turn into bullets, and l literally do not know where to park myself. It’s getting too much. Thoughts of him pop up while my boss is talking to me, so that I have to ask him to repeat himself. He floats up like a hologram during endless meetings, and I am beginning to rouse myself from a moment’s daydreaming to find that half an hour has passed. All good signs, wouldn’t you say?
Through it all, however, I’m consciously willing myself to keep a level head. I’m not a young, silly romantic any more. I haven’t been for years. I am convinced that there is no faraway look in my eyes, as I go about my business. I do not find myself doodling reprehensible excuses for poetry that would make a girly gay man hurl. And I do not break into song NOR dance, Ally Mc Beal-like, at odd hours of the day and night. I mean, I have, technically, but, hand over heart, those instances were completely unrelated.
In other words, I’m striving to be an ADULT about this. I’m a potential wife and mother, after all -not a flibbertigibbet, a will o’ a wisp or a clown.”
And then, almost before I could blink -I was going off at him. I blamed him for all my symptoms. I told him I would not be held hostage to my growing feelings for him. I told him I wouldn’t visit him. I basically FREAKED OUT. And naturally, I freaked him out. Who does that? You ask? ME, that’s who. I’m an IDIOT. I’d read this passage in a Michael Connelly novel where his hot-shot detective basically seduces a woman, only to leave her high and dry within two pages. I was SO disgusted.
And suddenly, being the self-obsessed writer that I am -it was all about me. This was exactly what was going to happen to me. Course, it didn’t help that I’d had a hard day, and I’d had a few beers. And naturally, being in that state, I completely forgot that the Golden Rule is to lock up your phones / laptop or other communication materials in case you commit a gaffe as stupid as the one I indeed performed. It’s just lucky I wasn’t pissed at my boss… WTF is WRONG WITH ME?