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i immediately started frothing at the mouth, boiling in a jealous rage. in honor of the occasion i wore tasteful zippered slacks from talbots and a cardigan set your grandmother lent me, and i put my grownup makeup on, which i get at bobbi brown. now return to your cartoons." the "book" was really a pamphlet, and its "author" was a woman named alice who dressed sort of like a gypsy and smelled like incense. photocopied pieces of paper that you folded and heat-sealed? i skimmed the booklet while trying not to smear sophisticated lipstick all over jackie's homegirl's expensive wineglass, rolling my fucking eyes at every other sentence. that hippie gently reminded me that i wasn't competing on a game show and should write my possible names on the notepad she'd provided. she told us to make a list of four possible vagina names that sounded mighty and strong and/or involved something that brought joy to our lives. one lady started talking about banging her ex-husband and realizing halfway through that it felt like a "salami wrapped in sandpaper," and it's two motherfucking days later and i still am not over the mental image of that shit.
but then i remembered that i'm young enough not to need inside i found an invitation to join her book group for a discussion on how to start fucking dudes after a lengthy hiatus caused by death or divorce. i think i saw your aunt getting her winter palette done the last time i was at bloomingdale's picking out a muted shade of jackie sent a car for me (RICH OLD BROADS ARE THE BEST, omg) and i tried to joke with the driver but i think he thought i was hitting on him and he totally stiff-armed my ass. alice told us that to that we needed to christen them with new names. i already call my shit which sounds pretty fucking powerful to me, but i figured a name change might do her some good. back in the living room alice was talking about the things a mature woman has to do to get her body ready for sex. eventually they turned to me wondering what pains i take when faced with the prospect of having some new sex. monday i went to zumba then came home and greased up the old wahl to attend to the overgrowth in my enchanted forest.
" while you stomp around rolling your eyes, mad because she won't put fifty bucks on your cell phone bill or whatever. just last week we went to zumba before having lunch at the walnut room and shit. i can't help it if sylvia prefers my company when she goes to see a movie at eleven in the goddamned morning. if you two are planning some sort of intervention i will set your hair on fire." what a melodramatic little pussy that dude is. she knows you won't; you're too fucking busy banging craigslist dudes and chasing your dealer around town. jackie is a pretty fancy motherfucker what with her designer suits and granite countertops and law degrees, and it baffled me that this bitch jackie wearing the same 0 pajamas oprah probably wears.
so then she calls me, and i'm like a smarter, funnier, more grateful version of you who never screamed "i hate you! the next night, and the second i walked through the door she pounced on me and shouted, "i want you to write my dating profile! i was tempted to remind jackie that my own attempt at internet solicitation not only had failed to result in any tangible human penis but had also been heartily laughed at by one of my goddamned friends. she told me that she'd recently joined a book group with other older successful women, many of whom were either widowed or divorced, and several of them had suggested that she try her hand at dating again and that had seemed like the easiest way to transition her way off the bench and back out onto the playing field.
I was hoping that if a guy made it to the end of my profile, he probably liked what he was reading and that would be a good time to mention my wheelchair. I know that’s deal breaker stuff right there for a lot of guys, but not for the right guy, and that’s who I was looking for.
As I was writing about the wheelchair part of my life, something extraordinary happened. And like everything in the body and in life, the MS ebbs and flows. When the speed of the city and my speed no longer meshed, I left Brooklyn and moved north where I met my husband.
I guess you could say I was looking for a man and found more of myself.
They have said it gave them the opportunity to ask the important questions so that when they finally met, it was as if they’d known each other forever.
That’s why we created our Free Communication Weekends, so that even if you don’t have a subscription you can communicate with your matches – and potentially start one of the most important conversations of your life.