NUMBER 69
Hard to believe, but this is my 69th post since I began my ramblings in the run-up to my 30th.
So, without further ado, I'd like to thank Fifi for bothering to read this regularly; for the five people that have felt compelled to leave their comments; my parents who are technophobic enough to ensure that I never have to worry about them reading this; and of course the ladies, bosses and faceless HR girls who spice up my life with enough chaos, confusion and false hope for me to write about whenever I feel the need to vent my spleen.
*****
Today I received a mail from my beautiful Balkan ex-belle. As it popped into my inbox my heart skipped a beat. I'd written to her the other day, but she rarely writes back so promptly.
She was well and happy to hear from me, but typically coy about revealing anything meaningful about her or her life. She seems to be going through her own turning-30 crisis, not knowing where her life is heading or where she wants it to go. All she knows is that she isn't happy where she is.
Reading between the lines I can only infer that she's still single (still hope for me?) and may soon leave her homeland. I think now could be the time to launch another kamikaze request for her phone number, with a view to going out there some time in the near future.
I know my obsession with her is unhealthy. She's exotic and kind and I've never met anyone who matches her. I've built her up so much in my mind - stunning, slender, savvy and serious about her roots - that it's nigh on impossible for her to live up to it, even if she let me see her.
So where does that leave things with my Israeli? Not too badly as it happens. Contradictory as it may sound, I enjoy spending time with her: the smooching, the eating and the whipping her at backgammon. And with L in the Balkans and Z over here, I see no reason why I can't give all I need to give to both of them. Loving two women when one of them is not in the same country is really not that tricky.
Hard to believe, but this is my 69th post since I began my ramblings in the run-up to my 30th.
So, without further ado, I'd like to thank Fifi for bothering to read this regularly; for the five people that have felt compelled to leave their comments; my parents who are technophobic enough to ensure that I never have to worry about them reading this; and of course the ladies, bosses and faceless HR girls who spice up my life with enough chaos, confusion and false hope for me to write about whenever I feel the need to vent my spleen.
*****
Today I received a mail from my beautiful Balkan ex-belle. As it popped into my inbox my heart skipped a beat. I'd written to her the other day, but she rarely writes back so promptly.
She was well and happy to hear from me, but typically coy about revealing anything meaningful about her or her life. She seems to be going through her own turning-30 crisis, not knowing where her life is heading or where she wants it to go. All she knows is that she isn't happy where she is.
Reading between the lines I can only infer that she's still single (still hope for me?) and may soon leave her homeland. I think now could be the time to launch another kamikaze request for her phone number, with a view to going out there some time in the near future.
I know my obsession with her is unhealthy. She's exotic and kind and I've never met anyone who matches her. I've built her up so much in my mind - stunning, slender, savvy and serious about her roots - that it's nigh on impossible for her to live up to it, even if she let me see her.
So where does that leave things with my Israeli? Not too badly as it happens. Contradictory as it may sound, I enjoy spending time with her: the smooching, the eating and the whipping her at backgammon. And with L in the Balkans and Z over here, I see no reason why I can't give all I need to give to both of them. Loving two women when one of them is not in the same country is really not that tricky.
posted by David Cohen at 9:06 pm
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