The confluence of the New Year and all the reflecting it
brings, and the prospect of an out-of-town visitor, led me to a light bulb
moment recently: I don’t know why it has never occurred to me before, but I
have come to realize that, despite my crushing loneliness, I do not, in fact,
want a boyfriend; no, I want a chauffeur and a never-ending supply of batteries.
Most of you know about my irrational fear of driving
(well, irrational to the Americans, but that is because you were all born driving)
but if I had a chauffeur, he or she could take me to the places I want to go
and don’t mind going to alone - movies during the day (not at night, that is
major Loserville to go to the movies by yourself at night), eating out, somewhere
with a good view of fireworks, a Strip show, etc. And because this is a chauffeur
and not a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have to dig out my sexy (i.e., uncomfortable) lingerie
(well, as sexy as it gets in my size) and put on make-up and check that my
bedside stash of condoms have not expired, and not eat anything gassy the day
before and pretend that my life is hunky-dory and make up a fabulous social
life, so I am OK with the fact that the out-of-town visitor can’t stay more
than five minutes after we’ve done the horizontal mamba because I have a (fake)
party to go to with my (fake) friends anyway.
Because, for me, at this stage of my life, when I have
been alone for so long, I just can’t be arsed with all the baggage a regular BF
would bring (like, one of my married friends has to shave every week – even in
winter!). A chauffeur doesn’t care if you shave, right?
Cracked. Me. Up. Am I the married friend? Because once a week is my limit, and if I weren't married, I probably wouldn't even do it that much.
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