Chatting dating sex texting
I separated from my husband of 25 years a few months ago.
After living with bone-crushing aloneness within that relationship for a decade, followed by months actively grieving that loss, I found myself ready for some companionship.
Some women flirt by sending pictures of themselves in scanty little underthings to the man they’re hoping to attract. “Sexting” is most prevalent though, the media tells us, among teen girls. Only, instead of texting racy photos of myself, apparently, I send pictures of homemade soup.
Or at least, that’s what I would be doing if my friends weren’t actively trying to stop me.
I was certain I’d made a fool of myself, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how or where. I was already learning what I might one day want in a partner (if I were ever to decide I’d like to be partnered again), what I didn’t want, what I found attractive, what bored me, and had come to appreciate how much I enjoyed my own company. I was old enough, experienced enough, and happy enough on my own to not take any of it too seriously. My dating history, if all pulled together, added up to about a nanosecond.I almost went so far as to add a photo of that lovely pot of soup but, thank God, good sense and friends who love me intervened. Meanwhile, I’m gobbling up the soup, enjoying the baguette dotted with salty lumps of butter and dipped in the piquant broth. Or maybe this is just the nature of putting ourselves out there.He hasn’t written back to accept or reject this over-the-top offer and the turmoil in my head has begun again: He can see the flaws! I’m trying to figure out how to not wade in so deep, so fast next time.As a friend of mine put it to me later, &mmp;ldquo; Dating is like adding Miracle-Gro to every character defect you possess.” He asked me to dinner.
We spent three hours chatting, making connections, occasionally flirting, a bit of hand-holding. I found him attractive and decided he was someone I wanted to know better. He needed to get home, he said, suddenly slammed with exhaustion.
It was only recently, since I’d been living on my own and encountering my friends and colleagues as a single person, that I had begun to see how deeply loved and appreciated I was by the people in my life, love given to me as a grace, without merit. As long as I had chicken soup on the brain (and, I reasoned, the healing properties of this soup might keep me from getting the flu I had marginally been exposed to), I went to the store and bought the ingredients for the best chicken soup ever, along with a baguette of crusty sourdough. My kitchen filled with the aroma of love: love for myself.