Dating?

 I'm 62. That's 62 years of age. Not 62 inches tall because I'm not. I'm 60 inches tall if I stand straight. Which I don't. Stand straight, that is. So I'm a short, round old woman with two bad knees that make me wobble and lurch...

you get the picture. I'm old.

And someone wants to date me.

He's a nice guy, named John. Not a romance hero by any means. He smokes too much and talks too much. I think I say a sentence once every 15 minutes. But... he's nice. And he has a good heart. And he likes me. I mean, I kind of don't really see myself in a relationship because I just don't and I don't always answer his calls and I haven't tried to get together with him and then I called him with a work thing and he practically jumped through the phone and was like "yeah! And then you'll have lunch with me!" and I said yes because he was so happy saying it and I was like, okay...

I want to be excited but I'm not. Why can't I see myself relaxing into dating someone? Everyone tells me that companionship is worth it and again, he's a nice man and I'm too old to really believe that one of my K-Pop boys is going to wake up tomorrow wanting an old, broken woman.

Is it possible that I really do like myself enough not to need another? Is it because my vagina is old and uninterested? Am I waiting for Hawaiian George Clooney? Or am I so damned scared I can't even acknowledge it?

There's a part of me that thinks maybe I can go to his house and just hang out with him. Maybe we could watch a video and just hang out. Maybe if I could stop thinking about how much I don't want to date I could just be.

Anyway, it is a compliment to have someone excited about going out with me. I just wish I was excited also.

Memories

 I recently saw an ad on Instagram for a journal to be written by mothers to their daughters. I had a small snicker at the idea of Mollie reading my memories and rolling her eyes. "You already told me that story," she'd mutter.

She says that every time.

Maybe it's about getting older or maybe it's just the idea of how small but special our lives are. But those things we remember, those small moments from our life that remind us of moments that have passed...

I remember the house in Laurelhurst. That was the only house we ever lived in that was my home. When I dream of going home, it's always to that house. My only real home.

It was a red brick house. I remember the brick stairs at the front of the house and a rhododendron bush on each side. My mother loved rhododendrons. The side of the house had a brick wall and iron gate which led to a small side yard. There was nothing special about the side yard but I remember it being so green and lovely. And quiet. Did I spend much time there? I don't know if I did but I feel like it was someplace I hid with a book.

But the memory I have: the cherished memory of a moment that meant nothing but I remember as clear as yesterday was sitting on the front step. I was a chubby girl, I was wearing shorts. It was a warm spring day. I remember the coldness of the brick under my skin. Even today, I can perfectly recollect that feeling of the cold brick, the warm sun and how it felt.

Memories are funny things. As I remember that moment, as my body slips right back into that feeling I'm still that girl. I'm always that girl. I'm a 62 year old woman with shot knees and a shuffling gait, but I'm that girl feeling the cold brick under her skin, the only home she will ever know behind her back and the endless wonder of a warm spring day.