Chapter Eighteen: A Man Free World?

The lesbians of this world might be on to something.

Or the nuns in the convent.

Both lifestyles, after all, are testosterone free.

But the truth is one thing I never want to be is a man hater. I certainly am not going to lump all of mankind under one giant “They are all assholes/idiots” heading. That is just not me.

But seriously. The men in my life in the last twenty fours have just left my head reeling.

First, there is the ex-husband: Mr. Drama on a level that would cause the words in this blog to overflow the screen, fall onto the floor, and leave everyone reading this standing in verbal vomit, and we can’t have that. I hate to “go there” but let’s just say by the end of the day yesterday, I was practically giddy with the thought that I no longer (or ever again for that matter) have to live with or wash the boxers of this irrational man. (And as Forest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that.”)

Secondly, there is my gym stalker. Well, not really. Nice guy. Funny guy. (Okay, hot guy, there, I said it. Happy?) And a very not so subtle oh so after me for no less than six months guy. Somehow I ended up in a sweat flicking contest with him yesterday. “I sweat more than you do! No I do! No I do, take that!” What kind of middle school regression ritual is this? I think it’s called flirting but I haven’t done very much of it since 1993 so I’m not sure exactly.

And lastly, there is the aftermath of my former Dating Land Traveling Companion. I am inclined to lump all that that was and is into the category of “a good thing.” Even though it was hard, I celebrate that toward its end it differed significantly from my prior relationship track record. Back in Act One, I always played the role of stubborn control freak living in a stone tower, wearing a suit of armor and seeking pseudo protection behind emotional walls thicker than the earth’s crust (43 miles at its most pronounced depth).

But this time around I lost the steel suit, took a wrecking ball to the stone walls, and instead opted to try on some (GASP!) vulnerability and (SHOCK!) raw emotional honesty.

Not bad. Not bad. Checked myself out in the mirror. Hmmm, looks good on me. Fits better than I would have assumed. The vulnerability is still a little snug, but it might stretch out if I wear it for a while.

And besides, the view is so much better from here without so many walls in the way. I think I can actually see my reflection more clearly now.

And so . . . lesbian or nun? I do wear a lot of black, the nun thing could work? Sister Mary Audra Elizabeth, maybe? But lesbian? Nah. I'm eternally entrenched on this team and I don't plan to entertain the concept of a switcheroo there any time soon (or ever).

So, even if I have endured some testosterone driven confusion as of late, I will never wave the man hater flag.

THAT much I do know.