Fella

Fair enough.

Andria wants to know about the fella, and I've hinted at the existence of said fella a couple of times, and I have trained you to know that if asked (and often when not asked) I am happy to share all the details of my life...

Okay. So Fella (does Fella need a name?  Nah, let's just go with "Fella") and I met just before Christmas.  He is (very) tall, and sweet, and thinks I am the cat's freakin' pajamas.

He lives in a neighborhood I like, he has a good job, he's smart, he's appropriately gentlemanly, he loves his momma, he grew up with sisters and therefore understands women better than some, he's polite, he's funny, he's got great hair, he actually listens when I talk.  I mentioned a restaurant I'd always wanted to go to and doggone it if he didn't surprise me with reservations. I mentioned getting together to watch the Tigers on TV and he got tickets- courtside seats.  He wants to spend as much time with me as he possibly can, but understands when I need alone time. He thinks I'm silly for joining Weight Watchers, because I'm perfect the way I am. He goes to church with me.  He's eager to meet my friends (and the ones that met him gave the big thumbs up- and they're as wary as I am).  He's introducing me to his friends, and I met his parents (whom I actually LIKED, and who liked me) weeks ago.

All of this sounds great, right? Right.  I, of course, am waiting.  Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for him to say something rude or mean or obnoxious. Waiting for him to hurt my feelings, or be shady about where he's been, or ogle another woman right in front me.  I've never been so cautious in a relationship before, and I was afraid he would get bored of it and move on, but nope. He's just patient. And he calls regularly, and I don't ever wonder where he is or what he's doing. Because he's always with me, or wants to be. What the heck is up with that?

In all fairness, it's only been two months.  Crazy stuff could happen at any time. I've got my eyes peeled, I tell you.  He will not sneak up on me with the asshole-ish-ness... I'm not going to miss any red flags.  But I'll be darned if they're not all bright green right now...

Tick

Do you hear that?

That loud-as-all-get-out TICK TOCK TICK?  The thundering echo of my biological clock that is reminding me that my eggs!  They are shriveling!  They will expire! I'm going to RUN OUT OF TIME!

OHMYGAH I'M THIRTY-SIX AND A HALF (ALMOST) AND OH YEAH I DIDN'T HAVE A BABY YET.


I sure as hell hear it. It's cranked up a time or two along the way the past thirty-six and a half (almost) years, but it's always faded away after a bit.  But boy, is it SUPER LOUD right now.

I blame the baby shower I attended two Saturdays ago, and all the teeny teeny tiny little pink soft teeny tiny things I fondled.  All the sweet little dresses and world's softest blankets and adorable teeny teeny tiny socks and such.  And the ridiculously glowy, happy, non-complication having co-worker that flits around with her great boobs and basketball tummy (and I swear not an extra ounce anywhere else on her teeny tiny little body).  She makes it look awfully easy and fun. And she's also incredibly unlike me in that she has kept all the un-lovely things about her current condition to herself.  I've never heard her complain about nausea, or fatigue, or any of the really unpleasant things that most people avoid talking about at parties.  And that doesn't help me.  I want to hear about how she wanted to puke when she smells my lunch, or how she could barely keep her eyes open at her desk, or how she is now so tired of being pregnant she wants to reach in there and yank that baby right out.

I'm trying to avoid talking about this in real life because my fella and I are pretty newly coupled and talk of babies is as yet not really warranted, I'm thinking.  Besides, by next week I'll probably be enjoying my late-sleeping, nap-taking, non-babysitter-needing, nachos-for-dinner lifestyle and forgotten all about it.

We'll see.

p.s. Oh yeah, there's a fella. ;)