More Evidence That I am Getting Old

Exhibit 1: When on perfectly lovely first date with perfectly lovely man (imagine what a human being would look like if Orlando Bloom and Penelope Cruz had a baby and the baby grew up to be a 6'4" tall man with sideburns and messy hair. Can you say swoon?), I found myself completely exhausted at 11:15 after two cocktails.

[Not to belabor the point, but he also walked me home--half a mile! So gallant!]

Exhibit 2: After imbibing previously mentioned two cocktails, I sleep for 5 hours and awake at 5:30 never to fall back asleep. Two cocktails! Measly vodka tonics at that. Spend next hour pacing and internet surfing. Give up on going back to sleep. Take 3 mile walk. This is on top of the 4 mile walk I took on the 4th and the 6+ one I took early in the week, bringing my total for the week-so-far up to 13 miles! Is there such a thing as competitive walking? Because if there is I wanna do it. I don't even care if I look dorky while doing it.

Exhibit 3: I just proclaimed that I don't care if I look like a dork while speed walking. All I need now is a fanny pack and I'll be ready to be put out to pasture.

Exhibit 4: Didn't kiss previously mentioned lovely man goodnight. Contemplated the option, then decided that the evening had been perfect as it was and didn't want to rock the boat by possibly infringing on his personal space or rushing anything. Given the fact that in my younger, wilder years I regularly invited young men up to my room for a little makeout session on the first date, this last development is especially telling. Perhaps I am not growing "older" so much as "wiser." Go figure.


Evidence that progress on the maturity front is a slow and laborious process: Am keeping options open and have my eye on somebody else I'd like to kiss this weekend. Eggs in one dating basket=bad idea. At least for now.