(I admit it, the title is in questionable taste. But I assure you that I will not be discussing my GI tract. I promise.)
The saying goes that there is a lid for every pot, but what if there isn’t? What if there are some lidless pots (or worse yet, potless lids)? What if I am one of those lidless pots (or, worse yet, potless lids)? It is a thought that I haven’t wanted to dwell on; however, I have been trying for over a year to try and get myself adjusted to the idea.
I’m not trying to sound all, “woe is me,” or anything; if anything, I’m trying to be rational and logical. I’m hurtling towards 40 with what seems to me to be blinding speed (actual results may vary), and quite frankly, it seems to be getting harder, not easier. The sooner I can reconcile myself to the idea, the sooner I can liberate all this energy I expend on thinking about it, worrying about it, etc. Hell, I can finally relearn Polish with all that extra time! Or not.
You see, the issue is not finding men I’m attracted to physically. I have that in spades. The difficulty seems to be finding a quality rapport. And that is what I consistently rolling snake eyes on.
Maybe as a pot (or a lid, I haven’t decided which one I am), I’m just a millimeter or two shy of being a good fit with a lid (or pot). Hell, maybe I’m a (lidless) crepe pan