I come from a large Irish Catholic family. Holidays were mixed anticipatory events. Oh boy, food...and lots of it, and oh no, drink...and lots of it. Guaranteed tears and at least one fistfight.
But that was thirty years ago...my how we have all mellowed. Recovery is the theme these days, and if there are tears, they stem from joy and gratitude...and no one would even consider punching a Nun. Well, not most of us.
Thirty years ago I had different dreams and ideals regarding the world at large than I do looking down the barrel of fifty. I suppose we all did. When I think of the woman of my dreams today, (if I still have one) she is much different than the one in my noggin' from days gone by. Then-she wanted sex, and more sex and took care of me, and wanted sex again. Oh yeah, she had to be beautiful and not be on my ass about drinking or the use or recreational drugs.
Two small concessions, I thought. Wrong.
Today she would still be beautiful, but comfortable with it, not pushing it, sex would be great, while enjoying a good meal and conversation just as much. A wicked sense of humor coupled with a fine sense of self...and endless patience. And yet I still live alone. Go figure.
Okay, I don't even date. Why. I'm scared. Half the time I can't stand to be around women as they frustrate the crap out of me and smothering them with a pillow seems like a healthy choice while the other half I yearn to be embraced.
Any takers? Just kidding about the pillow reference...sort of.
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