I went out with a guy last night. We had a nice time, and have plans to go out again in a week or two. Here’s my stream of consciousness so far:
His job requires him to travel about 200 days a year. My immediate reaction:
“Fantastic! you won’t be around often enough to drive me batshit crazy and give me cause to hate you!”
Then, the creative (read: crazy!) side of my brain takes over and continues the thought with:
“But will our babies ever really know their daddy? Or will I end up like one of those pro-sports wives who do all the work, while their husbands just fly in and out and have a bitch in every city but bankroll a pretty nice lifestyle for me and I’m sleeping with the teenaged gardener anyway – except without the coolness of being married to a pro-athlete, and when the hell did my life become the bastard love child of Jerry Maguire and Desperate Housewives?”
Let’s just hope he doesn’t find my blog. I prefer to keep the crazy under wraps until at least the 3rd date.