I think I'll get some cats.
I don't need a port for a ship to come in.
I don't need a stable for a white horse.
I'll get cats. Multiple cats. Inbreeding cats. Cats who will lay claim to the sofa and the laundry baskets.
They will all have names that begin with Mr. and each one will remind me of a Mr. that got away.
The cats will welcome me when I come home. They will circle my legs and purr. They will vie for my lap.
They will silently remind me of the other sounds of silence in my life:
- The silence of grown up children leading their own lives.
- The silence a teenage daughter suffering a monstrous mother.
- The silence of routine.
- The silence of my phone.
- The silence of my inbox.
No white smoke yet on which feels worse: no mail in my inbox in the myriad dating sites, or myriad irrelevant mails.
I hear a voice in my head (probably my mother's): "Lower your standards! you never know!"
- I have already lowered my "looks" requirement from Ben Afflek to Woody Allen.
- I have already lowered my "education" requirements from University to No Spelling Errors.
- I have already lowered my "conversationalist" expectations from Pithy Quips to Not Monosyllabic.
- I have already lowered my "age range" expectations from Born after Woodstock to Born After Hiroshima.
- I have already lowered my "physical activity" expectations from Athlete to Ambulatory.
Is there anything wrong with wanting this Do-Over to be with someone who takes my breath away?
In the meantime, "I turn my collar to the cold and damp" and I wait it out.