I have fallen off the wagon again. Not the wagon of sobriety - that would, of course, require a commitment to staying away from Happy Hour. And, as much as I do love my Cap'ns & Diet Coke, I remain, solely a weekend social drinker, as I just don't see the use in drinking alone. (Even alcohol would not be enough of a mechanism to make me truly uninhibited with myself - not the way I need to be.)

So whence is this rickety wagon off of which I have tumbled? The writing wagon. I was supposed to write with greater commitment and zeal. To bind myself to the goal of actually making a go of doing this over the long haul. I can't become a writer if I don't write. So, is it a question of my fearing what I want or that not being what I want at all?

Oy. Too much existentialism for a beginning of the week afternoon where my head feels full of cotton and I am about to expectorate a lung (look at who is grumpy about having picked up the unshakeable head cold going around the office).

So, bear with me as I cheat here, and make a list of all of the things I had wanted to discuss over the past couple weeks but had been to negligent to make good on. Need to jot them down before my recollection becomes irretrievable:

• My Maternal Grandmother: How She Makes My Mom Crazy & How My Mom Can't Live Without Her (& How I Fit Into The Sordid Mess).
• Ignoring the Weatherman: My Baby Steps Towards Banishing My Personal Rain Cloud (Or At Least Learning How to Carry An Umbrella)
• My 10TH High School Reunion: Nerdy Girl Makes Good, Gets Date, Loses Cell Phone
• Elusive Affection: Dating as an Adult, What to Do When You Like Him, Like Him, and Learning to Live with Disappointment.

These are all fertile areas to mine for information, anecdotes to share, and goodies to discuss. However, I confess that at this moment, I am pretty much fixated on the last one. My new happy pill, or the placebo effect it may be having on me, had me utterly convinced this weekend (even as I lay flat on my back in bed coughing away) that life was pretty damn good, that I was pretty damn lucky, and that, given all that, I damn well deserved that things were finally going my way. Still think I deserve it. But now, I am still sick, at work, feeling fat, not sure I can go work out (due to much lamented illness), and a little sad. No, that is not quite the right word. Rather, I am disappointed. I went out on a date last week. With a boy. That I was excited about. Who was taller than me. In my heels. Who plays music. Who seemed just as nervous as I was. Who is cute. Who I met (again) at my reunion. Who I have known since the sixth grade. Who lives in my zip code. Who is not affiliated with the military in any way. Who is funny. Who reads the New York Times. Who has multiple siblings. Who lives in my zip code. Who really seems to know who he is. Who was a gentleman. Who didn't seem to be afraid of who I am or what I have done. Who made me feel comfortable. Who made me believe in possibilities for the first time in a long time. Who called me less than 12 hours after he left me on my porch the night before to tell me he had a really good time the night before. Who made references throughour our date to "the next time we go out." And yet....

That was Thursday. Today is Monday. In the cold relief of the beginning of the week, I now get the distinct feeling that something has gone wrong. I extended an invitation to my holiday party next weekend. He declined, citing prior concert plans. He inquired as to how my weekend went. I wrote a witty, inquisitive e-mail in response (well, at least I thought it was) and received no response. At all.

If he was into me, he would have written back. If he was into me, he would have called. He is not into me. Sad. Sad because I thought there was a possibility. Sad because I seem to have no perspective/judgment at all when it comes to men. None. At all. Seriously. I really, really thought he liked me. Oh well.

At least I have learned by this point in life that you cannot make someone like you. Believe me, I have tried. I have spent my whole life to this point trying to force people to like me. Hell, I spent four years with my boyfriend trying to get him to love me. I think I even had him fooled into believing that he really did about half of the time.

But once again, this, like the last thing (where there also was a mysterious "I am going to stop talking to you all of a sudden, when up to now everything seemed just fine, and I won't tell you why" situation), leaves me feeling a melancholy, if for no other reason than my great fatigue of disappointment, and my realization of a longing for the simple affections of sustained, unquantified, required love.

I am an exceedingly fickle person when it comes to love. It will not find me easily. If for no other reason than I tend to bestow my affections on those who will not love me. But truly, it would be such a gift if someone I was interested in were also interested in me wholly/truly/not as a band-aid or an emotional crutch, but just for me. It would be a gift that I would cherish. Every day. Always.

Would it be forward to tell someone that I would always be kind, gentle, tender, thoughtful, reverent, faithful, careful and loving in caring for their heart?

To give your heart away - what an infinite trust. To give it to a proper and reverent caretaker - what rare and resplendent fortune.