Quest for Love
“Spring is coming and it’s like a mass explosion of men chasing after me,” my 70-year-old mother cried me a river over the phone recently. On the other end of the line I rolled my eyes and flipped through my own datebook, blank page after blank page.
Recently, it occurred to me that maybe I’m not running into Mr. Right is because Mr. Right doesn’t shop for lipstick at Sephora or hang out on my couch watching The Bachelorette. I need to figure out where he spends his time.
Carrie Bradshaw had her theory about “modelizers,” those New York City men who only date models because, in NYC, models walk the streets among mere mortals.
Sometimes when I leave my house for a hard day’s work and see my cats settling into a splash of sunshine for a relaxing day of nothing but napping, munching vittles, and napping some more, I think how easy my life would be if only I were a cat. As it is with cicadas and mating. Sing, mate, die … as the cicadas scream their beady-eyed heads off from the trees overhead, I can’t help but muse how easy our love lives would be if only we were cicadas.
Today’s grocery list:
1. ingredients for s’mores
2. the latest People
3. a bag of those sweet little clementines (no seeds, please)
4. a man to call my own.
Come on, don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about bumping into Mr. Right at your neighborhood grocery over a stack of pomegranates. While I’ve not yet found love in the grocery aisles, I’m convinced this is an efficient method of combining errands, so I’ve been polishing my man-shopping skills. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:
This is the year.
This is the year I’ll bring him home for Christmas.
This is the year I’ll walk through cobblestone streets shopping with him, a light snow falling (but not flattening my hair) while I warm my hand in his coat pocket and we feed each other roasted chestnuts, stopping afterward to share a hot chocolate.