I finally slept last night. I got a good night's sleep. And that was good in light of today.
I was having a good, busy day at work. Then here came Shelly with a package she found on my car. It was a card and note from a young customer (young compared to me, that is), asking me out. You can imagine my consternation. You can also imagine the good-hearted ribbing that followed. The term "cougar" was mentioned. I can't for the life of me put a face with his name. You know I've never been good with names.
I couldn't be less interested in dating, no matter what the man's age. I already have a husband. I'm still just as married to you as I ever was. Men-friends are okay, but I have no interest in anything else. Nobody could ever follow The World's Only Perfect Man.
So I did the only possible thing. I came home from work and ate three cinnamon rolls. I know I'm not going on a date - that's a no-brainer. But this is challenging my self-concept. I see myself as a widow, and widows are old. It never occurred to me that a man might be interested in me. The last time I was hit on was twenty-five years ago in the Wrigley Field bleachers. I'm not the kind of woman that men are interested in. Except you, that is, and you're exceptional.
Please come by tonight so we can talk. I'm trying to figure out how to handle this without hurting feelings, and I could use some male input. Come and save me from more cinnamon rolls!
Adore you and only you,