Sounds of Silence

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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. 

Ahhh. The deafening 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.

If there is any advantage to being divorced, it is the opportunity for a Do-Over. 


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. 
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Lowering the Bar?

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I met someone nice today.
No. Let me re-phrase that. I MAY have met someone nice today.

No. Let's be honest... I had a chat with someone on messenger and he seemed literate and not psychotic.

You'd think I have lowered the bar but it's not my fault. The nice guys are still nice,  but the creeps are creepier. They lurk in the corners of the dating sites, drawing you in with their charm, and then wham, they hit you with their creepiness.

But what choices do I have?

Supermarkets?
Men in supermarkets are a far cry from being single.... they have been sent there by their wives with long shopping lists in the hopes that they - the wives - can have an hour of peace of quiet. But then they -the men - stand helpless at the shelves, list in one hand cell phone in the other, receiving new orders from central command.

Singles Bars?
Thank you no.  These are the realm of the mono-syllabic crowd, too young to get the reference to Sgt. Pepper.

I've already discussed the difficulties of meeting men at the pool, and I have yet to gracefully spill the contents of my purse and be rescued by a melancholy Hollywood actor just waiting for a girl like me. (Although I have fallen flat on my face for no apparent reason in front of my favorite ice cream place).

So, until that time that I am introduced to a friend of a friend, I will keep my creep-detectors honed and persevere in that netherworld of online dating.
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