Two years ago tonight, I saw Blondie live at the glamorous Key Club on the Sunset Strip with burlesque queen Dita von Teese. Pretty memorable evening, even if I didn't meet her.
Okay, let me clarify. She was seated at the table behind me, and although we made eye contact, we didn't speak. But we were kindred spirits that night. The day prior, she had filed for divorce from rocker Marilyn Manson. That same day, the straight boyfriend (TM) and I had attended the funeral of a mutual friend who lost control of his sports car on Dead Man's Curve right before Christmas.
The SB (TM) chose this highly emotional event to admit to me that I was now being supplanted by a female. This went over about as well as the proposed Automaker bailout package did in Alabama. As the concert was one of my Christmas gifts (the only one I actually saw) I agreed to go. And so I sat with him, on the last night that I would know him.
So there we were, Dita and I, licking our wounds (figuratively of course) to the awesome sounds of Debbie Harry. Mom always said, if you must suffer, do it in style. And while Dita and I both got through our respective losses, I sadly admit that she seems to have taken it better than I.
Two years and I simply don't date. I hang out with friends, coworkers, and my ex Michael, but I don't date. Not even a cup of coffee. In honesty, I think the horror of it all (ask me about the Loser Coffee House sometime) combined with my utter lack of recent experience are a knockout punch. It's not that I've forgotten how to ride the bike, I haven't seen the bike in years.
Which brings me to my courageous New Year's Resolution: At some point this year, I will attempt to go out on a date. I'm only promising to do this once, but it's certainly time to move forward. If it happens, y'all will be the first to know.
Wish me luck.
