I got a little email-happy this morning. Insurance people. We’ll see if anything comes of it. I doubt it, but I have been wrong before. It wasn’t anything horrible. I apologized—an apology that was long overdue—to the other deputy commissioner who reported it. To the wrong fucking people, but he watched it, so I did apologize to him. But the DOI people—
A) these people are fucking pussies.
B) they are so afraid of me.
It’s better to be feared than loved, I suppose. Now the other email. We will just see what happens next.
LawyerBoy and I are going to spend Christmas together. I am actively working on meeting new people so I don’t have to feel like LawyerBoy is babysitting me on New Year’s. I met—and guys, I swear to God I don’t plan these things, they occur naturally—I met online a 59-year-old trial attorney with a Harley who loves watching boxing and drinks. I would say I located {D}’s twin, but dude has hair. I’m almost just morbidly curious about him. Like, it can’t be, right? Right? Oh, and his fucking name is fucking {S}. The coincidence is eerie. Oh well.
The first time I posted a picture of {D} and me on Facebook, my youngest immediately commented and said, “Wait, Ma, didn’t you already date that guy? He looks just like the last three.” He did. I wish I could post the pictures because if you put all three of them right next to each other… I come to a point where I might not remember which was which. That’s how I’ll know I’m healing. Which short bald dude was it again who raped me? I can’t remember… like that would ever happen. I don’t know—maybe if I had dementia.
That’s not to say I remember people’s names. I dated a short bald dude with glasses who was a lawyer, and I just called him Bert the Turtle because he looked like the turtle from the 1950s Duck and Cover nuclear war videos.
There are more of them who all look alike. The kid just knew those guys. The one that doesn’t look the same but still has the blue eyes is LawyerBoy—but he is also a giant. I’m not a short girl. I had to wear flats to both my weddings because the grooms didn’t want me to be taller than them. I was two inches shorter than Brian 1, and I was the same—if not a little taller—than Brian 2. Like, I had a quarter inch on him, like I do {D}.
Okay, just checked the dating app. He’s 5’7”, like me and {D} and Brian 2 and Burt the Turtle and Rich and every other man I date. I can’t help being this tall. My mom is like 5’2” and my sister is 5’3”, and if you take a picture of the three of us, I look like a giant next to them.
Maybe the guy will flake. But I’m running into potential, and I’m just going to look forward and go for it. Like, why not. Free dinner. That, my friend, is what dating is all about.
Anyway. Nothing to see here. Just your standard administrative morning: a few emails sent, a few feelings processed, a few people probably clutching their pearls for no reason at all. I’m sure everyone will be fine. I’m sure it’s fine. These things usually work themselves out quietly. Or at least have the last couple times.
So I’m calling it a day. No conclusions reached, no lessons learned, no big dramatic arc completed. Just a couple of realizations, a mild sense of curiosity, and a dinner reservation I didn’t pay for. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a free dinner to attend.
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