The weekend has properly started and by all rights I should put on my party clothes now and go out to a pub or a disco. No, I should go out for dinner first and then go out for drinks and a dance.
In my younger years I would have done so, but I'm afraid that I no longer have it in me. I wouldn't know how to party if I stumbled into one. I've forgotten completely how to do it. The noise of it would drive me mad. I'm a middle aged woman on the wrong side of the middle after all.
I'd rather have an intimate get together over white wine and candlelight in a cozy pub by a fireplace in a small inn somewhere. That's about my speed. Somewhere in the countryside where I can look at the starry sky later in the evening. A little tipsy maybe, but feeling no pain.
A woman can fantasize, can't she? I'll fantasize a tall, dark, handsome stranger to go with it. Someone who dissolves in the morning before breakfast so as not to spoil the illusion. I don't want him to see the saggy bits by daylight. The harsh truth, as it is so unkindly called. The one you have to face up to during the day when you're sober and sensible.
I am, in the first place, a sensible woman. Make no mistake about it. In the end I always do the right thing and I don't let my imagination get out of hand. This leads me to live a very sedate life without any sort of wild abandon in it. I no longer live my life like it's a dramatic novel or a larger than life film. Something by Ingmar Bergman with a lot of pain in it.
I suppose that if you get burned bad enough, you learn to live your life without any shenanigans in it. You avoid drama. You steer clear of anything that could be highly emotional and volatile. You learn to appreciate peacefulness and predictability.
Well, look at me, preaching to the probably already converted. I'm sure I don't have to tell any of you anything new.
Have a good evening.