… more color in my wardrobe:
This is what I wore on tonight’s date with Writer Guy. Meh. A typical fatgirlonadate look: perfectly presentable, not particularly delicious. I wish I could crack the code of stylish sexiness! (More on this soon: I’ve been meaning to write about my evolving ideas about fashion.)
Anyway, I’m all out of sorts after this date. We have this thing we go to on Tuesday evenings. It’s lovely, it’s something I’d want to do anyway, it’s fun to have a little routine, but it doesn’t leave us with that much time to just hang out with each other. Add to that directly opposing schedules (in addition to being a Writer Guy, he is also a Working A Crap Job To Pay the Bills Guy, and Crap Job is mostly on the weekends) and a heaping measure of shyness on both of our parts, and I get a little worried that we’re not really getting to know each other at all and that at some point down the road I’ll find myself in a relationship with a stranger.
But that’s not really what has me out of sorts. Writer Guy, as regular readers will know, has been sick lately and canceled our last date. He was on the tail end of his cold tonight, still all coughs and watery eyes and general bleariness. I think, if he hadn’t canceled last time, he would have preferred to stay in tonight. So we met up, walked over to this thing we go to, did the thing, walked back to my car, and I went home. No kissing (yuck! I am a big fat baby about colds and flus and related ickiness). No exclamations of how lovely I look or how wonderful it is to see me or how tragic it is that he’s too sick to ravish me as is his wont. Generally, no massaging of my ego. Egads, does this mean he’s just that that into me? Or does it mean I should cut down on the caffeine and lay off the poor guy for a minute?