Not too long ago, I texted a friend of mine, "You know what the worst part about single is?" *pause* I'm sure he thought the obvious lack of intimacy, or not having a sure date partner, or something along the lines of company. Obviously knowing how completely random and off-centered my brain can be sometimes he resisted the temptation to shoot back any of the obvious answers and finally just replied, "No. What?" I said, "I have no one to show my pretty panties to!" He texted back, "LMAO! You are crazy!"
That may be true, actually. But I was dead serious.
I won't lie, I haven't exactly enjoyed being single lately, but I'm not throwing myself to the masses either. I think there's a reason I'm single right now, so I'll take advantage of this time I have to work on me (which is obviously needed), no matter how much I don't like it - I've accepted it; that's the first step (or so I'm told). But one of the most annoying terms I've had to come to accept is that underneath it all, I'm dressing for myself. No one is going to barge in while I'm undressing and mistakenly see my matching sets with pretty lace. When I get in bed, it's just me and the comforter. And my dog, who, although I'm convinced is part-human, cannot appreciate the value of fine intimates.
It's that term, "intimates" that gets me the most. A fling doesn't deserve to see the good stuff. They're there for one thing, and it's not to marvel in the embroidery or technology of your seamless tank top bra. The absence of having a true, not imagined, official, not assumed, consensual, not forced boyfriend means unless there is some freak accident and you have a perv for an EMT, no one's going to appreciate or even get to acknowledge your Very Sexy coordinates.
Yes, that is the roughest bummer of all right now. I could see if I lived near a beach, then I might somehow be able to get away with some scanty undergarments as a "New Age bikini," but the closest beach to me is Lake Lanier, and not only is it too damn cold but that place isn't exactly Long Beach, Miami or Sin City. I'm sure I'd be locked up, and ordered to put on one of those ugly orange jumpsuits in no time. Then my mission to expose the cute, racy, scanty boy shorts would be dead on arrival.
I'm not sure when it will be my time to claim someone again. I think I'm at the point right now where I've just accepted that when you're not looking is when you actually find the One, so I'm busying myself going to group sessions, writing, volunteering, making money on the side, and reading until I feel like entertaining the flirty social spots again. In the meantime maybe I'll make my way over to Walmart and invest in some plain cotton undies, the ones that can be washed 50 times straight and only fade a couple of shades.
I don't want to indulge in them though. I've been contemplating sampling the dating scene again by my birthday - just in time for the warm weather and spring dresses. I mean really, I can't be wearing big mama draws under a cute lil dress! That deserves capital punishment!
That may be true, actually. But I was dead serious.
I won't lie, I haven't exactly enjoyed being single lately, but I'm not throwing myself to the masses either. I think there's a reason I'm single right now, so I'll take advantage of this time I have to work on me (which is obviously needed), no matter how much I don't like it - I've accepted it; that's the first step (or so I'm told). But one of the most annoying terms I've had to come to accept is that underneath it all, I'm dressing for myself. No one is going to barge in while I'm undressing and mistakenly see my matching sets with pretty lace. When I get in bed, it's just me and the comforter. And my dog, who, although I'm convinced is part-human, cannot appreciate the value of fine intimates.
It's that term, "intimates" that gets me the most. A fling doesn't deserve to see the good stuff. They're there for one thing, and it's not to marvel in the embroidery or technology of your seamless tank top bra. The absence of having a true, not imagined, official, not assumed, consensual, not forced boyfriend means unless there is some freak accident and you have a perv for an EMT, no one's going to appreciate or even get to acknowledge your Very Sexy coordinates.
Yes, that is the roughest bummer of all right now. I could see if I lived near a beach, then I might somehow be able to get away with some scanty undergarments as a "New Age bikini," but the closest beach to me is Lake Lanier, and not only is it too damn cold but that place isn't exactly Long Beach, Miami or Sin City. I'm sure I'd be locked up, and ordered to put on one of those ugly orange jumpsuits in no time. Then my mission to expose the cute, racy, scanty boy shorts would be dead on arrival.
I'm not sure when it will be my time to claim someone again. I think I'm at the point right now where I've just accepted that when you're not looking is when you actually find the One, so I'm busying myself going to group sessions, writing, volunteering, making money on the side, and reading until I feel like entertaining the flirty social spots again. In the meantime maybe I'll make my way over to Walmart and invest in some plain cotton undies, the ones that can be washed 50 times straight and only fade a couple of shades.
I don't want to indulge in them though. I've been contemplating sampling the dating scene again by my birthday - just in time for the warm weather and spring dresses. I mean really, I can't be wearing big mama draws under a cute lil dress! That deserves capital punishment!
hahaahhaaha!!!! love it!!
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