There is something very satisfying about putting pen to paper. I have terrible handwriting, but I still feel a deep connection to the actual written word, Even though no one can actually read what I have written. I think this is why the blog might be difficult for me. Or this might be just an excuse why I am not blogging every day as I said I would.
I have been going to a Sunday night meeting. Sure, I'll blow my own anonymity on my blog, why not. I don't see why 16 years of sobriety is something to hide anyway. Unless of course I decide to start drinking again. It would then be a drag because my friends would gasp and stare.
So, I started going to meetings on Sunday evenings a few months ago. It is a women's meeting and most of the women are gay, which is fine with me. To quote Seinfeld, "Not that there is anything wrong with that.'
The unexpected perk to this is that I get all these compliments from these lovely women. They tell me how pretty I am and that I look nice. I tell you, NEVER in my life have any men ever been so complimentary and full of flattery. Never. And I am around a lot of men with work and such.
In fact, I have been at my current job for nearly 11 years and I have never been hit on. Not once. Well, maybe once by a creepy guy who worked in R&D, but I am not sure about that.
All of this is confusing. Do these women think I am gay? Am I safe because I am not gay? Is this the same thing as me hanging out with gay guys and flirting with them because they will never really hit on me?
I don't really think about it that much because in truth, I don't care. It just feels so good to be praised and lauded. I find myself actually brushing my hair and putting on lipstick to go to the meeting. I no longer go to mixed (men and women) meetings because, frankly, no one says wonderful things to me while I am there. No one strokes my arm while telling me my pedicure is lovely and how do I maintain my beautiful figure. Nope, just the regular crazies who think not drinking is akin to brain surgery.
Sunday nights are my nights now. My husband watches the baby, I freshen up, brush my hair, put on a nicer shirt and head to my meeting. I feel all nervous and excited, just like I used to before going to the mall in junior high school. It is borderline pathetic, and would actually be pathetic if it weren't being viewed through the filter of comparison to the rest of my life.