Redefining Ridiculous

If I think about the Bulgarian at all these days, it is with irritation. I’m annoyed by the discolored, failing caulk between the kitchen sink and the quartz countertop. I get angry about the stupidity of the toilet paper holder screwed onto the side of the vanity in the basement bathroom, so when you reach for the towel after washing your hands, you inevitably drip all over the toilet roll.

I was in love with that guy?

It’s nearly six years since I started blogging as Ridiculouswoman. I’ve calmed down a lot. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I used to love to make people laugh, but I don’t feel funny anymore. My early widowhood horniness (unsated, then or now) has largely dissipated. I feel flat, resigned to life as it is. “Welp, that’s it then. That’s all there is. Just wake up in the morning, work, make dinner for Angelic Daughter, watch some TV, go to bed, then “get up and do it again, amen.”

I know I shouldn’t just give up on happiness, or on trying to find friends and build relationships. That’s why I made myself the organizer of a MeetUp group for singles over un age certain. I even found myself mentally composing a profile, in verse, for an as yet unselected dating site (despite a disastrous experience six years ago), while simultaneously working my ass off gardening and doing yard work and questioning whether I really want another relationship ever again. I sure as hell don’t want some guy telling me I’m planting things in the wrong place or composting incorrectly. Hell with that.

So if my old ridiculous of getting hot and bothered over younger men is gone, my new “ridiculous” is the way I live my life as if I’m younger myself. I lift and haul stuff. I work out with dumbbells. I manically whack weeds and trim shrubbery. I go up and down two flights of stairs carrying laundry, on knees that are holding up OK with physical therapy exercises and the benefit of the weight I’ve lost.

I’ve started taking an interest in my appearance again. I’m trying to grow my hair out, before it won’t grow at all anymore. The lotions I apply to my skin seem to be having a positive effect. When I look in the mirror, I see a beautiful, desirable, vibrant woman.

I’m just not confident anyone else sees her, ever has, or ever will. And I’m not sure if I care. Maybe thinking I look good for my age is just for me, and that’s enough. Ridiculous?

Here’s the verse I’ve been mentally composing for a dating site, if any spark of interest ever awakens in me again:

I own my own house, I mow my own lawn
I workout most days to keep myself strong.
I’m a widow (not rich), don’t want to get married
But might like a man once again ‘fore I’m buried.

I’m a writer by trade (no money, not kidding)
I ain’t one to sit on my ass all day knitting.
I like classical music and work in the garden
and using big words without begging pardon

I think I should tell you my firmest dealbreakers:
they’re Trumpers, smokers, liars and fakers
they’re overgrown whiners still tied to their mothers,
or aging frat boys chugging beer with their brothers

(don’t get me wrong, I love a good brew,
I’d just rather drink it with grownups-you too?)
there’s one more thing that I cannot abide
that’s a guy whose motorcycle is his preferred ride

no, the guy who will charm me likes to read books
does stuff for himself, he cleans and he cooks,
He’s funny, likes music, and good conversation
prefers Maine over Florida for his vacation

he’s looking for friendship to grow to connection
he’s secure in himself, doesn’t fear introspection
to him, intelligence is a woman’s top feature
he never mansplains, knows he’s not my teacher

Me? I’m short and I’m curvy,
not skinny, quite nervy
I love to laugh and sing karaoke,
sometimes I’m corny, I say “okey-dokey”

And now that the Hawks have snared Connor Bedard
persuading me to go to a game won’t be hard
I like going to Wrigley for the sun and the beer
Even though once again we say “wait ’til next year”

So that’s about it, I’ve said more than enough
if you made it this far, you’re my kind of tough
If you like what you’ve read, then swipe, click or DM
I might be your her, and you might be my him.

If I ever decide to give dating apps another go, I’ll let you know. Until then, I remain,

your milder, calmer, resigned but trying to find a spark again, recently revised

Ridiculouswoman

©Anne Penway 2023