Sexagesimal, Dating, and Six-Pack Abs

We have way too much fun at work. Everyone says so. Granted, sitting in a cube all day every day would be a sublime form of torture for me if it weren’t for the regular eruptions of witticisms and giggles from the women on the other sides of the partitions. I have never laughed this much at work in my life. None of it translates very well, but one recent winner for funniest moment is a tie between: a) Kerri and I both IMing to each other at the exact same moment, the exact same phonetic spelling of the world sexagesimal (sex-a-jism-al); and b) her reaction (and subsequent actions) to a photo I sent her of a certain incredibly hot guy’s naked torso…

So today was a kind of dating pinnacle for me. I am dating. Yes, that’s right. Me, diehard serial monogamist. I am dating what seems like 18 different men. And half of them were on my computer screen in dueling IM windows this morning. I now know the real reason I’ve never done this dating thing before. I’m simply nowhere near organized enough. You have to stay on top of it and not double-book – all the while making sure you’re being honest and ethical and yet fun and cute. You have to remember to whom you told which story. It’s a lot to manage. Plus, you don’t want any one of them to know about the others, yet you want them to know there ARE others so they don’t mistakenly think you’re exclusive and heading toward a RELATIONSHIP.

There’s also the issue of intimacy. Honestly, even if I’m just having big make-out sessions with someone, it feels completely wrong to be smooching a different mouth a few days later. That must come from the serial monogamist, who is currently bound and gagged down in the dungeon, trying to stage some kind of a stealth revolt.

My friend Cath says I’m in this odd, untouchable yet available place that you can only get to after being very in love and getting very hurt. Suddenly, you attract men like white on rice. It’s kind of sad and screwy.

Think about it. You’re most attractive to the opposite sex when you’re too messed up to care about anyone. They can smell it: She just wants to have fun. She couldn’t fall in love even if Mr. Right lay down in front of her with six-pack abs and a bouquet of lily of the valley. Apparently, broken equals intoxicating.

Last night a bar brawl almost broke out over me. Shut up. I’m not kidding! Well, okay, sort of.

But yes, somehow, I’m meeting guys everywhere I turn. Thank goodness, in a way, because my mother just started in on the match.com and eharmony thing again. She’s very interested in me doing online dating for some reason. Maybe the vicarious thrill. She’s also freaking because one of these men in my current orbit is a 30-year-old waiter (aka aspiring actor, aka REALLY SMOKING HOT). She thinks it’s cause for alarm. I think it’s cause for champagne.

When I think about actually falling for one of these men, and there is only one who has a strange little power over me (which I think may well be due in part to the fact that he doesn’t call), when I go there in my head just for a second, all my doors and windows slam shut and my heart turns the music up really loud.

There’s nothing like making a serious mistake when you’re 41 to cause you to seriously question whether there’s any hope in hell that you will ever get it right.

Q got me a cool, metal hanging decoration that is just giant letters spelling “breathe.” It’s beautiful.