Super Fantastic Cleavage (Oh, now I have your attention)

Sometimes I wonder if absurd things happen to other people and they’re just not sharing, or if there’s a cosmic version of a “Kick Me” sign on my back.

I haven’t been overtly active on the divorcee-dating-scene. Honestly, it’s taken all of my energy to learn how to be a whole person again, on my own. I haven’t been super gung-ho to add the to the scenario the ridculous peacock show of courtship to my plate. However (you knew there was going to be a caveat) a friend, who has a hard time accepting “no,” knew someone that they were positive I would just love… and fueled by a moment of loneliness, for we’re hardwired to want to pair off, I said, “a drink won’t hurt.”

Foreshadowing, peeps, foreshadowing.

So I met the fellow for a beer. And for the record, the beer was lovely. Dark and heady, perfectly complex. The feller, not so much. And when I say “not so much”, I really mean, what the ever loving heck does my friend think of me?! Because, no. NO.

Ok, so my gal pal doesn’t really get me or my taste. After years of friendship, I’m clearly not an open book. Perhaps my fault for keeping self too close to the chest. I know dating is innately hit-or-miss, so I can’t be mad that he wasn’t my soul mate. I’m not even upset that the guy was a bit of a douche.

Here’s the thing that really ticks me off. The “gentleman” (I use the term loosely) was super average in both looks & personality; he had nothing to crow about. I’m not judging – yet he had the nerve to try and fat shame me, in a totally passive-aggressive-conversational way. Ironically, the whole time he couldn’t keep his lecherous eyes off my super fantastic cleavage. Dude, you can’t have it both ways.

I’ve worked really hard to feel good about myself. To accept me for who I am. So, in effort to maintain a forward momentum I pretty much told him where to stuff it, as politely as I know how, and stormed off (righteously leaving him with the tab).

Awesome, right?

He chased me to the parking lot, making apologies, but my theory is if you don’t think I’m crazy-awesome, then let’s not waste each other’s time. Bottom line, rude is rude, no matter how you couch it.

Unfortunately, my indignant exit was horribly marred. My incredibly cute heeled boots were no match for a devious patch of ice.

I slid.
I wind-milled.
I landed on my prodigious derrière.
Luckily, nothing was broken but my pride.

Once again, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

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