Copied from previous blogging life…
I used to be fabulous. I used to be ballsy, and fun and outgoing, and well, just plain fabulous. Anything I wore I made look even more stunning. Anyone I met was intrigued by me. All of the lounges and pubs and clubs and bars I went to were the best.
Gatsby socializing is what I called it. Everyone dressed to be looked at. Everyone was fabulous, fascinating and desirable. EVERYONE was perfect.
I drank martinis, had bottles of wine or the best tequila ordered for me. We all smiled, feigned interest in each other’s pretentious lives just long enough so we could tell them how fascinating and fabulous we were. Life was great. There was no threat of carrying anything meaningful in that backpack of a soul we were blessed with. It was empty, save for a tube of fabulous lipstick, the number of a cab company, and our real lives crumpled up somewhere in a side pocket like the homework the dog ate last week.
Gatsby socializing is exactly what I needed in my 20’s, and I was good at it. Like, really good. I read the paper, watched the news, travelled solo, knew the best places to dance, eat and play. Men actually dated me. I had fabulous meals, surprises, flowers, love letters. You name it. It was all fabulous. After all, when you’re that good, who needs a meaningful relationship?
I wore my resume like a badge. In all of those Gatsby moments, I was fabulous. I was not a single mother. I was not lonely, or insecure, or tired. And then it all ended. Kind of like a car crash that only dings the car a bit, but rattles the driver to the point they just can’t drive any more. It didn’t kill me like the Gatsby crash, but it definitely sent me into shock darlings.
During the Gatsby socializing stage of life, I was looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right Hair Colour. Mr. Right Amount of Hair. Mr. Right Education. Mr. Right Height. Mr. Right Resume. Mr. Right Romantic. Mr. Right Traveller. Mr. Sweep Me Off My Feet In Every Possible Way. Times have changed. Mr. Right’s packaging looks a lot different these days. Back then I had forgotten about Mr. Right Morals, Mr. Right Values, Mr. Right Kindness, Mr. Right Gentleness, Mr. Right Sense of Humour and Mr. Right My Intellectual Match.
My other friend, on the rocks, and up and down with her man says he’s loving, attentive, good with a foot and back massage, but a bit of bum and too protective. She admits to just not wanting to be alone any more, and knows that she’s going to take this guy back, that they’ll work things out and carry on.
I’m jealous frankly. I’m in a manlimbo-batical. I just don’t feel like cranking it up and cranking it out on a million and one dates any more my sweet little dumplings. As I said to my friend the other night, “It’s a complete waste of make-up.” My friends, especially the married ones ironically think I should just go for the night out and meal. Honestly, I think I’d rather just stay in, heat up my vanilla cognac and pass out bra-less with the cat.
Dating is a lot like a job interview. You always leave wondering whether you had something in your teeth, and either praying they do call, or pleading with the merciless-dating-gods that he loses your number faster than you can pull your car out of the parking lot.
Unless there’s some very handsome man who randomly knocks on my door after dinner, and has a penchant for intelligent, middle-aged, strong and fabulously independent women, I’m leaving it to the Gods.
My friends and I are as likely to go to a club or bar now as a form of recreation as we are to stay up all night drinking pop, eating potato chips, chocolate and doing one another’s hair. We just don’t do that any more.
We get together a few times a year for a yummy lunch, or quiet dinner. We go to the art gallery, or to a cute bakery, or quaint jazz bar. Don’t get me wrong, we still have our outrageous moments, we just weigh the pro’s and con’s a little bit more wisely.
We know what it’s like to wake up the following morning and want to pull the covers WAY up over our heads when we remember the night before, or just vaguely remember the night before.
We also remember what it’s like to be fabulous and wanted.
Do you remember my Gatsby days darlings? When I’d come into work with the most outrageous stories and then go out that night and do it all over again? Remember the remote control, the pants pockets, the staying out all night?
Some might say I’m becoming more “reclusive”. But I say “selective”. That makes me more mysterious and therefore more fabulous – right darling?