Tuesday, June 10, 2003

It's perfectly obvious to anyone who knows me that I'm irresistable to women. It's even obvious to me. By women, of course, I mean certain types of women. And by irresistable, I mean in a certain way. Married women, for example, love me, as do older women (it seems to kick in around 65). When I got divorced, I heard a million times that she was a fool.

Certain other types completely ignore me, but I count that as their loss, and assume that they will one day grow out of their affection for boring, poorly trained men.

I prefer to think about the ones that adore me. Geek girls, for example. The freshly divorced.

And then, of course, there's Christie, who adores me with a force I find both wondrous and terrifying.

We're going to Michigan together this year. Yes, that Michigan. My home away from home. My annual weeklong experiment in living with other people. My sanctuary from email, television, and just generally everything except for dear friends, a few chosen authors, the sand, the water, and the sky. And the cottage.

That cottage is where I place myself in my mind when the world is too much with me, and when it's really bad, Carrie is there, and my arms are going around her, everything buried in the scent of her hair.

But the figure in my head is unclear these days, and in a few weeks there will be another brunette standing in that sun-drowned room, and I will bury my face in her hair and feel, if not forgetting, at least the building of new memories on top of the old.

It's time.

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