Ouch

The Australian emails me tonight at 10 p.m., many hours after I emailed him to see if we were still on. He says he forgot we were meeting tonight and does not suggest another date. (Also -- because I’m the kind of person who notices and can’t help analyzing things like this – he signs it with his name, instead of his first initial and a kiss, which is how he’s signed all the other ones.)

I am trying awfully hard not to tar all men with the same brush, but the ones I’m meeting these days certainly aren’t making it easy.

A friend I saw in DC in September listened to some of my tales of woe and announced: “You are so overdue a prince.” She doesn’t mean William or Harry.

I don’t need a prince. But I don’t need this kind of crap, either.

I got the email on my blackberry as I was leaving an excruciatingly boring drinks party that I can’t even claim was for work. In the car on the way home – thinking of the therapist who pointed out I’d be better off crying than bingeing – I did cry a bit. Lest I seem totally melodramatic, it was at least as much because of the loss of possibility and what he represented – the first person I actually really liked since the Fig, and the first person I’ve felt any kind of connection to in ages – as just, well… feeling crummy.

The tears didn’t help, but then again, the food never really does, either.