It’s a Flirter’s World
As I take the steps necessary to work myself out of my crushing and debilitating stages of depression, I find myself looking back at old habits and behaviors and wondering just what I should do to recalculate my life. One area that seems to need some tweaks is my love life.
One item that I have always “prided” myself on was that I have never been a big flirt. You could even say that I considered flirting as annoying, gross, and even a smidgen below me. The whole propping up my breasts or bending over in front of a man or laughing and flipping my hair whilst I leaned over and lay heavily on the potential victim’s shoulder all just seemed so…silly to me. Whatever happened to the traditional Daniel Craig lookalike coming around the corner and stopping dead in his tracks as he sees me unassumingly packing boxes of supplies for the downtrodden children’s homes as a beam of light shines down upon me from the sun above?
What do you mean, not $&^%@ plausible?
Some of my friends say that they have seen me flirt, but they don’t understand. I am a jokester, an equal opportunist. If I make a funny with a man, trust me — I will make the same funny with a woman. Will, have, and do.
However, this has also caused my dating pool as of late to become a touch shallow. I’m doing my darndest not to attract men with low amounts of self-esteem and high amounts of emotional damage (story of my mother-lovin life), and so far, so good. Unfortunately, I am still not attracting the calm, confident, secure, sexy-as-hell men who are looking for a calm, confident, secure, sexy-as-hell woman.
(I’m not those things, but I’m working on it!)
Right now, as I’m typing this alongside the Chattahoochee river, an attractive young redheaded man has just completed his run and is performing his post-workout stretches on the dock in front of me. He is shirtless and wearing black mesh pants. His pecs are defined, his abs are toned and tight, and his shoulders and back are glistening beneath the morning.
And what am I wearing in this rising Georgia heat?
A long, baggy white sweatshirt. Long, formless black pants. A do-rag.
Yeah. A do-rag.
For the first time, really, I wonder if I could have a shot with him, were I dressed in the proper appealing attire. It’s not even that I’m aching for a date — I’m just wondering.
Recently, I’ve begun hanging out with a young woman who could very well be my doppleganger. One of the only major differences is that she is much less afraid of showing off her body — not in a disprespectful way, but in a way that shows she is excited in her look and is happy to share it. I felt envious of her shape until she reiterated our similarities, and I was then forced to realize that in envying her, I was kind of envying myself.
Which, let’s face it — is stupid.
Anyway, my plight for the last several months has been to see the world in a better light, stop making myself a victim, forgive others as I hope they would forgive me, and just, you know, stop whining over the little things.
Is that all just to find a good man? No.
But it sure would be nice.
Which brings me back to this whole flirty thing.
Humans are not the only creatures on earth who primp and preen to be noticed. Every animal has either the male or female (or both) perform some dance or genetically grow colored contusions to stand taller than the rest. The peacock comes to mind, as does the…well…lots of other animals! My point is, they all put in the time and/or the work to get a mate. And dagnabbit, maybe I should to.
How shall I begin?
Pfffft. I don’t know.
I’ve got a lot of sundresses I don’t wear. Maybe it’s time I, you know — wear them.
Oh, yeah — and the do-rag in public thing. Better stop that for a minute, too.
This is going to be harder than I thought.