Wild Irish Rose

So I wait patiently and look for the signs that there is some Universal, On High, Grand Plan for my life. It would be so nice to see the signs up front rather than figuring it all out after the horse has left the barn. Or the man has left your life. 

And the signs are all very confusing. Stop. Go. One way. Forget it. Share the road.  Low flying plane. I have no idea what I am doing.

And I am getting bored again.

As the next weekend rounds the corner, Craig and I begin to chat about the possibility of seeing each other. Rollercoaster up!

Who would have thought that I would have the more predictable life?  I have the whack-job ex-husband. The unheard of custody schedule. The hellish work demands. The home and garden obligations that rival a labor camp. I can keep a lot of plates in the air. I just can't seem to find a way to work this plate into circulation. And when I can, it often flies off in another direction and sometimes smashes to smithereens. Rollercoaster down.

St. Patrick's day is coming. On a weekend to boot. I would love to show him the pubs in the neighborhood on the high holiday. All the traditions.  All the colorful locals. Wear the drinking gloves.

On Friday night, I am out with work friends celebrating someone's (long overdue) retirement when Craig texts something flirty and adorable.  I am so wildly attracted to him I ask him which one of us is getting into the car and driving in the other's direction. I can no longer even pretend to care that the retiree is leaving forever.

Craig admits to family obligations.  Wishes he could see me, but can't. 

I flirt a little and tell him he needs to find a way to escape soon.  I won't put my heart on ice for long.

He flirts back. It is almost enough.

Except that Saturday night comes and I am bored. And I am inside-out thinking that the High Holiday was passing me by and would not fall on a weekend for another 5 years. I'd be in my 50s. The thought gives me the vapors.

I text Charlotte. She tells me to get dressed and go to the Pub.  I think going alone is icky.

She reminds me that it is a neighborhood pub and statistically it is a given that I will know about 25% of the people in the bar.

I agree but still think it is icky.

She tells me she will join me there after the dinner gig she has been invited to.

I consider the idea. I am showered and looking fabulous. I have great jeans and a green shirt on. My hair is stunning. I can't fathom wasting this good a hair day on a rerun of Dirty Dancing. I will not put Baby in a corner.

Scott texts me. I don't remember the reason. But I tell him I am wigging about going out by myself. He tells me that he goes out by himself all the time (I bet). I say I tell him I never do. He says with a little notice he'd have joined me. I am not sure how I feel about that exactly, but it sounds a lot less lonely than what I am about to do. And it sounds a lot like something Charlotte would strangle me with her purse straps over.

But I put on a little perfume and walk out the door and put my feet on the road to perdition.