But cabdrivers dig me. Last week, I jumped into a cab and started to chat with the driver. It was an interesting conversation and he shared that his wife is in Pakistan for three months and it’s very hard to be alone for that long. I didn’t “get” the subtext and agreed that it must be lonely…. It didn’t click until I was getting out of the cab and he gave me his phone number. Ugh. And then just a few days later I was in a cab early on a Saturday morning and the cabdriver started questioning my sex life. I had to tell him that he was very offensive and to stop. His response, “We’re just having FUN!” How insulting to be treated like nothing simply because I’m perceived as a slutty American woman who has no morals or boundaries.

Is it no wonder that I’m confused about being a sexual being post cancer and unsure about who’s out there to be trusted with me?

And, again with no real “western” explanation to it all, I sit here today with no body aches and supremely limited extra-curricular sweating. Sigh. I am grateful!

I suppose I’ve finally come to the conclusion that it is quality over quantity when it comes to life. And perhaps the suggestion seems morbid but I use my sweet, inspirational and all-loving 96-year-old grandma as an example. Her body is old, tired, her siblings and love of her life are gone, and she sits on the couch all day. Waiting. The last few weeks, there is no distracting her via phone calls that “this” is life. Grandma knows better. My darling, darling Grandma…

But she and I… you know, we understand and know more so than anyone else in our family.

Live it. It’s indulging in the wonderfulness of it all rather than the time. I can tell you that with no question.

But these guys have no idea that women in their 40s rock. Here’s something amusing that Andy Rooney, 60 Minutes correspondent, supposedly wrote (never can tell with these email things that get sent around.  PLUS, when has Andy been so sensitive about women?):

If a woman over 40 doesn’t want to watch the game, she doesn’t sit around
whining about it. She does something she wants to do, and it’s usually more
interesting.

Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at
the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you
deserve it, they won’t hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away
with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it’s
like to be unappreciated.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a
woman over 40.

Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her
younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They’ll tell you right off if you are
a jerk, if you are acting like one. You don’t ever have to wonder where you
stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it’s
not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 40,
there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with
some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

Isn’t Andy wise? But see he’s like 80 years old (sorry, Andy). or something. He should be wise.

Ok, So where do I fit in? How do my hopes fit in with reality? I guess I’m seeing the dating pool as bleak after seeing the most hilarious Bruised Orange show, I Saw Yous…, at The Spot. They do “dramatic-comedic” readings of the Reader personal ads from the “I Saw Yous” through “Adult Only.” We’re one messed-up relationship society. And while I laughed my butt off, I also groaned in realization that these are my potential dates. And it sucks.

If I’m going to be honest, though, I’ve used weight to hide in — to keep attention at bay, to keep myself safe from emotional connections. It’s all psycho, I know. And I guess I could stay “here” in these 30 extra pounds but there are two things that I can’t live with: 1. The prediction that menopause and Arimidex will slap on (another) 30 pounds and 2. The feeling that the fat girl suit no longer fits who I am inside.

The challenge has always been my commitment level and my discipline toward keeping the commitment true. But I want so much more from my life now. I feel that not making an effort would truly be the end of my happiness, the end of my life. It sounds so dramatic but when your physical and emotional selves are at odds, you are nowhere, you are no one.

And one thing I can bank on, is that I am someone.

When I got to my street and walked past the gangway to my door, I noticed this steamer trunk hiding behind one of the garbage dumpsters. I walked over to take a closer look. It was in really amazing shape and it was clear that it was used for someone’s move from Germany to Chicago. I opened it up to find miscellaneous boxes and decided I had to have this trunk.

I started to drag the big old box to my back steps. It was heavy and I had to use both hands to get it to the stairs. How the heck was I going to defy gravity and get it up the stairs? It took both hands, planted feet, guttoral yelps and some leg power to get it halfway up. I was standing mid-flight, both arms and legs pulling to simply balance the box on the stairs when I realized that I had no more juice in me. I had to let it go.

I wanted it. Bad. But I let it go when I realized that it would be bad for me to struggle up the rest of the way. Why is it that I can’t muster up this same focus and dedication to taking care of me? Why is it that I can’t recognize so clearly that I need to let go of some unhealthy bad habits in order to move forward?

I obviously don’t have the anwers… just the questions.

It got me to wondering how we can tell what’s “real.” I mean, is reality a perception or a truth? And whose truth is it? I read those personal ads — have even posted mine — but is that person you’re writing about you — or your best you or the you you want to be?

The last boy I dated from a personal ad turned out to be a liar, cheat, gambling addict and had secret children and unspoken marriages… None of that was listed in his ad, I might point out. This is where life feels tricky to me at the moment. A component of relationships — whether with co-workers, friends, family, lovers, even your body — is trust.

And when you’ve been burned a little bit — ok, cummulatively a lot — how do you ultimately regroup and learn to simply trust that you can give everything you have, be everything you are and it will not only be loved and honored but respected and reciprocated? I think emails and voicemails and personal ads have given us more curtains to hide our flaws behind. Or am I just feeling cynical today?

I’ve been dating for nearly 30 years now (a slight exaggeration as I only got one date when I was 16), and my ideal has always been wrapped around this prince charming thing. You know, the beautiful guy with the appetite for the “normal” girl who’s ok in the looks department but, damn, she has a heart of gold and a sweet personality…

Fairytales ultimately ruin a girl, right? Or do they? Maybe I’m just on the downside of “hope” these days. In fact, I know that I am. I feel more amazed to see couples who are “in” to one another and desperate to enjoy more time together. It looks so… sweet. I’ve just never experienced it,,, in 30 years…

Just this morning, I stopped at the 7-11 on my way into work. It’s a bad habit but I stop there for a Diet Coke to amuse me on my ride in while I listen to Eric and Kathy on Q101. Sure, it’s early in the morning and probably the guy behind the register has been up all night looking at the porn behind the counter (that’s what I imagine they do) between drunken characters and police officers and he’s counting down until he can leave the madness of 24-hour convenience. BUT his job is to be the host in that place no matter who walks in.

And, to me, that means that he should say hello to me and thank me when he hands me my change. I think what gets my blood pressure surging on this point is that I find myself saying hello to him and thanking him for giving me my change. It just rolls out of me before I can stop it. I know that it’s a silly thing to get all bunched up over… but is it? Isn’t this one of those common courtesies that demonstrate the mutual respect we have for one another? Ah… perhaps that’s more the problem. Perhaps that’s just my fantasy that even exists!

But next time it happens: I hope 7-11 guy is prepared for me to give him a Customer Service 101 pointer; it’s his job to be thankful that I’m stopping in.

Thank you. (see how easy that is to say?) I feel better now.

I was approached by a Former Co-worker about a job opportunity. It would be another bank. It would be in marketing. First and foremost, I was thrilled that Former Co-worker even thought of me. I mean, I really have no sense of what people think of me so this was an indication that it was all good. And that pleased me. Former Co-worker shared that this was a new position and that it could pretty much be whatever I wanted… and Former Co-worker believed that I have something they need.

Well, when I was finally in touch with the Potential New Boss, he sent me the job description and I was… floored. THIS would be a stepping up job, a true opportunity to be in a position that I’ve never been in my marketing communications career. But I wasn’t certain that I could tap into a passion for it…

And, knowing who I am, if it all worked out and I went there, I would get lost in the job and, once again, lose that part of me that wants to grow and move on and not be in a bank any longer. I not only said this to Pat on Saturday but I also mentioned it to Dawn last night while we were sipping on some $5 margaritas.

So the universe heard me. When I contacted Potential New Boss this morning, he responded that the position has been filled. I wasn’t sad. Shocked maybe that I never had a chance. But…

End of story. End of perpetuating bankdom.

It’s been a hard thing for me to accept — this forced loss of estrogen. I suppose that I would’ve come to this on my own anyway — hot flashes, night sweats, slowed metabolism, bone loss (creepy, huh?) — but I’ve arrived much sooner than my peers.

I’m still figuring out how to manage it. But I need to decide it pretty quick because being fat doesn’t feel so good to me. I mean, when I was walking home yesterday I had to jump onto the bus midway through because my fat thighs were rubbing together and causing so much friction that I thought I could spark a fire down there.

It’s clear to me that I will never meet the man I imagine if I am not the person physically that I think I am.

Ergh. More stuff to sift through.