The Mirror Is A Confusing Place

A friend advised me recently to think about what it is that I really want in the boy department, so that I know, going in, what I am looking for and not looking for. It was good advice, but I am finding it hard to follow.

Perhaps in a similar vein, I am finding it hard to decide what to do this week. I have given myself the week off, and perhaps because it's been so long since I did such a thing, I am at a bit of a loss when I get up in the morning (or afternoon).

As I was saying to one of the boys yesterday, I like to get up and ride first thing in the morning; I just prefer that morning comes a little later in the day.

But here's the thing: for a woman who thinks so much about everything in life, I don't seem to have a very good handle on what I am looking for when I get involved (even slightly involved, as in a date or two) with men.

I have no idea.

I get sad sometimes, from being rather lonely most days, and watching anything that smacks of romance (a romantic comedy, or even Wall-e, for heaven's sake) tends to pull the tears right out of my eyeballs.

But on the other hand, I just can't picture being in some heavy relationship that made me feel all tied down. I am not certain I have that in me anymore, or at least not yet. And yet - I also want lots and lots of the kind of sex that one simply cannot have unless it's with someone one knows well and trusts and likes. Or maybe loves.

It's a conundrum, make no mistake. A puzzle and a riddle, and I have no obvious solution to it, and not much hope of finding my way out of it - at least, not with anyone I'd meet through the usual channels.

And now there's a Sherlock Holmes episode on TV, in which a young woman is forced to cut her hair in order to gain a lucrative job, and she cries and cries about it.

Whereas, I had a dream the other day in which I woke up to discover that my hair had grown past my waist, and the first thing I did was rush to my mom and have her cut it all off.

When I really woke up, and ran my hand over my shorn head, I was relieved. Though I remember thinking, in the dream, that I ought to have had my mother leave enough hair to make into those two little knots that I used to like to wear.

A rambling and illogical post, to sure, but there's something about hair dreams that always pulls at my unconscious, as if there's a symbolic meaning.

I suppose the short hair means freedom to me, which I treasure above all else and of which I have carved more and more for myself over the years.

I wonder, though, if there's a way to be just as free, but less lonely.

Note on pics: These were taken with the pocketcam, by the waterfront in Williamsburg. Click to enlarge.