Wednesday, June 08, 2005

I seem to be surrounded by good company these days- at least from what I see in the tabloids. First Nicole, then Uma, Jen Aniston, Denise, and let's not forget JLo, have all had the wind knocked out of them by men that either can't commit; or can

Walking on the same streets we always walked down together is still horrific, and turning corners wondering if I stepping wear he may have been 5 minutes ago is still haunting, considering how he has vanished into thin air. It's sort of hard to resolve. So my new thing is to pretend he doesn't live here, nor does he exist. Almost like he died, even though this person I spent 5 1/2 years with may be 1 block away.

Sometimes I pretend he doesn't exist. That came in handy last night when I ventured to a new gym to take a dance class. As part of the last ditch effort to squeeze out what's left of my "still sexy in my mid-30's" years, (like Marisa Tomei in those annoying GAP ads), I chose to take a 'strip aerobics' class. I figure that's one of those things I better get over with NOW, like wearing glitter make-up and flirting with the teenage boys that work at the tanning salon, while I'm hurtling towards middle age, crow's feet, and mammograms at warp speed, having not yet reached my destination.

Anyway, the class for the most part was truly exhilerating. I haven't danced in a year, (which is equal to 4 years in 'teenager years.' I was all high on myself for a while, like 'Yeah, I can still keep up with the kids!" The moment of pride, however, was of course followed by a mortifying event that could have meant the end of dance class if not for my new 'I don't give a rat's ass' attitude regarding public humiliation. If you are familiar with dance class, you know that the last 15 minutes or so are reserved for 'across the floor' combonations. And of course since it was my first time I stuck to the back, wallflower style. Gay Paulo's combonation called for a few turns, dramatic floor slams, and finally 3 very graphic masculine style 'floor humps.' It was a really embarassing move but I wanted to please Paulo as he was very encouraging yet serious about his choreography. He had us going in groups of three but there were 25 peple in the class, which if you do the math means that at the end of each set Ms. BeenThere was humping the floor alone while the young girls cheered and pumped their fists. In, if I might add, full view of the free weight station where the sweaty guys hang out and leer into the dance room.

I only have a few more years to fart around before I'll be forced to attempt the transition into 'attractive older woman', and frankly, I'm a little concerned about it. When I think of an aging attractive woman I think of someone who's 'classy'. Sweeping throught the city streets in some sort of suede coat, a grey-tinted mane, and some sort of Parisian affect, acqired not in Europe, but through - built years of independance. I certainly DON'T think of someone who still tries to stuff into low-waisted pants and is convinced the 'juniors' department is still an appropriate section. (Do I have to tell you about the time my sister had to scold me for shopping above my age group at Abercrombie & Fitch?)

I had better start letting go of this man, and learning how to be attracted to more stable men. I fear I won't be a good candidate for the attractive older woman. I feel like I will just start looking like a munchkin. I'm barely 5'2'' and at some point, I will start shrinking even more. I am going to start to look like those short social studies teachers who have no erotic appeal. And my biological alarm clock has already gone off and it's only so much longer I can press snooze. Oh my God, I just realized I was only in my 20's technically when I started seeing him, and now I am closer to 40 than I am to 30. OH MY GOD! Bastard.

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