This morning my coworker who I will call Evil Flash Programmer (he's only evil with code) and who is dating someone 26 years younger than he is (which I don't think is evil, but you can feel free to judge...) imparted some pearls of wisdom to me on the subject of relationships. He said he finally found someone when he stopped worrying about the type of person he should be with and focused more on how he felt around the woman in question. "So," I replied, "what you're saying is that I shouldn't (hypothetically speaking) write off the 23-year-old bus-boy/smokin' salsa dancer because he lives with his parents and is, technically, still married?"

Then I asked Mojo Rising if he was dating anyone and the look that passed across his face told me everything I needed to know.

It said, "Am I dating someone? What constitutes dating? Do I need to share this information? Should I be doing _____ with ______ and/or ____? Why the hell not?! It's fun! But I wouldn't call it dating. So, how should I answer this....hmmmm....a burrito for lunch sounds good."

I told him that his face read like a book and he could never get away with lying to a woman. Then he accused me of being a lesbian and suggested that I stop being so snobby.

Just for today, I can learn about dating from men at work.

Some guy accidentally stole my cart tonight while I wandered around Gelson's carrying a gallon of water and wondering if I had gone absolutely insane or just imagined that I had spent the last twenty minutes selecting tomatos, wine and low-fat soy milk (among other things). Then I spotted this hippy-type guy announcing to the store that he had checked out with someone else's cart of groceries. Excuse the pun, but how "checked out" can you be to pay for someone else's groceries? It's one thing to take someone's cart by accident, it's quite another to watch the cashier slide them through the charger thing (does that thing have a name?). There was some confusion as we differentiated between my original groceries and the stuff he added. I thanked him for saving my place in line and we all laughed.

I felt a little sorry for him. Who knows what planet he's landing on right now?

Just for today, I can shop at fancy grocery stores.

What is going on? I can't seem to stay home. I'm out running around every night of the week like a 20-year-old. I didn't do this when I was 20 (so maybe that's why). I'm supposed to be putting children to bed and reading cookbooks at night while my husband watches sports recap (do husbands do that?...how would I even know?!). Not cavorting with salsa dancers till all hours of the night on schoolnight after schoolnight...! This is so much fun, it's got to be bad for me...

Just for today, I can have a fun life.

Despite so much pressure to believe the contrary, I'm convinced that a woman can pull off any given anti-beauty standard attributes (wrinkles, age, weight, etc.) while maintaining her "hotness" given the right combination of attitude and confidence (i.e., Susan Sarandon, Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet...not that these women aren't gorgeous, but they aren't teen-aged stick figures). Men, generally, do this better (i.e., Sean Connery, Harrison Ford...though, it seems like these days male-mojo hinges more on compulsive gym workout, metro-facials, and chest waxing than ever before...welcome to our world, men).

But I digress...I bring this up because such was the line of thinking I entertained when I decided to go out and get coffee in my yoga pants having gained back the weight that I had I lost that I had gained over the Holidays. Or maybe this is Valentine's Day chocolate weight? Or, bran muffin and bagel weight? Or, coffee creamer weight? Or, maybe it's how God intended me to be? Whatever it is, it's glued itself onto my thighs and doesn't seem to be going anywhere in the next 24 hours.

So, throwing all of my obsessive self-consciousness to the wind, I made the bold move of venturing forth into the fabulousness of Santa Monica in my booty-flab revealing yoga pants. To top it off, I wore non-thong underwear, thus, violating LA's fashions edict on two fronts: thigh flab and underwear line (I won't even get into my unpedicured feet because that's another blog). But, I decided it was time to cease investing my energy in such lame-ass pursuits as conforming to impossible beauty standards because A) I am not impressing anybody anyway, B) I don't know who it is I'm trying to impress who I'm not impressing C) even if I did know who I was trying to impress and failing to impress, why do I even care? and D) I'm really tired of trying to impress these mysterious people!

For these reasons and others (that flew out of my short-attention span brain no sooner than they arrived), I decided that life is too f---ing short to worry about whether or not I'm showing the world exactly where my butt folds over on itself (is this too much info?...if so, too bad). In short, I decided to stage a Sunday morning mini-revolt against the heartless pressure of conformity on behalf of thigh-flab and granny underwear lines everywhere. My inner-hippy came out and showed her stuff (wouldn't you rather read about child-rearing, or Iraq, or global warming, or the latest conspiracy theory on 9/11?...me either)!

Maybe, on some minute level, the peace of the world does hinge on my acceptance of who I am. But if not, at least I feel better.

Just for today, I can accept my imperfections.

Many years ago a psychic/friend assaulted me with her insight on some of my more challenging relationships. Next to "yoga teacher," "psychics" seem to require the least credentials, and, yet, are somehow endowed with a suspiciously large amount of power. Let's just say, for reasons that I cannot explain, I trusted her. Well, as it turns out, she is the type of psychic with insight into past lives. Not only that, but I learned that a particularly sucky relationship was due to the fact that said person was my "murderer from a past life." Talk about dysfunction! That's gotta be some expensive couples counseling! As for the details, (where?! when?!...dunno...something about living as a nun in a convent...(sigh) see, even my past lives are boring...), that was going to cost more than free, so I chose to remain in ignorance.

Today, due to a mysterious series of events, I somehow wound up having lunch with this particular murderer from a past life (to my understanding there's only one...but who knows?). I know what you're thinking: where are my boundaries?! When I first received this psychic news, I was terrified. I swore I could not occupy a room with him. I even had another friend announce to me, "Your murderer from a past life has entered the room!" whenever such happenstance occured. But, as time has trudged along (we're talking a decade), I have started to feel more secure with this incarnation and I have come to the conclusion that this past life relationship doesn't present any more or less danger than any of my other relationships with men (which should really give reason for pause...). The point is...I ain't gittin' murdered no mo'!!!

If there's one thing this life has taught me, is that I'm a sacred vessel of life. It's not OK to speak to me in a condescending tone, it's not OK to be sarcastic towards me, and it's NOT OK to kill me.

Now that I know this, I can socialize with anybody. Lunch was great.

Just for today (and this lifetime), I have boundaries.

I remember when I was in elementary school and would buy those packs of Valentine's Day cards. Even then, I knew better than to pick the ones with the big goofy Holly Hobby or Strawberry Shortcake or whatever asinine character that was all the rage in the world of ten-year-olds. I tried to find something tasteful, like, your standard generic card covered in hearts. I was such a saintly child that I made sure to hand write a card for each kid in my class and, because of the public school system, I sometimes had to buy TWO packs to make the 31 or 32 kid quota. And then I was up all night personalizing my card with a hand-written "Happy Valentine's Day!" And then maybe I would risk a token "Your Friend" for whoever was the object of my affections (I've been boy crazy since the first grade). I'd go to school the next day and exchange all my valentines and come home with 32 tacky cards with my name scrawled on. What a thrill! Those were the glory days of Valentine's Day. 31 to 32 freakin' Valentines...who cared if they were of Winnie the Pooh? In my youthful exuberance, little did I realize that it would be down hill from there.

Just for today, I can celebrate Valentine's Day.

I moved to Los Angeles when I was 22 and have, consequently, spent the entirety of my adult years in this Godforsaken, f---d up, totally addicted, insane, never boring, totally engrossing, inspired, undulating (cool word, eh?...it'd be better if I knew what it meant), crackety-cracked up (as in high) city of Los Angeles. In the past twelve years I have had well over a hundred job and have participated in an assortment of cults (yoga, 12-step, Meisner, etc). If there is one thing that I have learned about relationships in this city is that there must be a God because despite the variedness of my life, certain relationships have stuck to me like static cling. No matter how I think I change and grow they are still in my life like the "Thelma n' Louise" movie poster that won't leave my apartment (it's throwing off my whole adult vibe). It just belongs.

Just for today, I can have old friends.

I'm so over my pious food phase. My whole, "sugar is the work of the devil" attitude that really was just a transference of my horror-filled Catholic upbringing onto food (I still wonder if the earth will crack open and somebody will fall into a fiery death...which could also be attributed to the movie "Earthquake"). Today, I decided to celebrate my new found acceptance of all of God's edible creations by eating a cup of "Chocolate Therapy" at Ben & Jerry's (because I need therapy in every area of my life). It helped that I was with my pregnant friend who is hungry every five minutes. It was kind of weird because I have been scorning that place for the past few years, as if it were the corner crack-house. Or, as if I were a nun passing a brothel. In short, I felt like a bad girl...

Needless to say, the chocolate therapy worked. I'm sure it'll do a number on my thighs, but I'll live with it.

Just for today, I can eat ice cream.

My sister gave me "The Muppet Show" Season 1 DVD for Christmas (thank you!) and after watching it for a few dozen hours I have come to the awareness that I have a crush on Fozzie Bear. I didn't realize the extent of it until I saw Frank Oz interviewed and I thought, "He sounds just like Fozzie Bear...what a hottie!"

Just for today, I can experience Muppet love.

I have a male co-worker/friend who makes the day tolerable by making me laugh and listening to my dating woes (more like my whining). He rides a motorcyle and about a year ago he took me on (for) a ride that was originally intended to be to my car. Without getting into the details (because it's best not to underestimate the LAPD), let's just say that I won't be riding on any motorcyles with him or with anybody for the next few lifetimes. I still think he's great. I'm just very attached to being alive.

On Monday he came into work with a healthy five o'clock shadow. When I asked him about it, he answered:

"For the mojo factor. I've got numbers flying at me now."

Guys are so lucky. The less responsible and vigilent they are, the greater the sex appeal. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way for women. What sort of action would I get in the city of LA if I bought a motorcycle and let my legs, arm pits, and eyebrows grow out? I might get numbers, but they would, most likely, not belong to men...

Just for today, it sucks being a girl.

I got to yoga late this morning and so made a lot rustling noises with my purse and shoes, thus, contributing to what the teacheer deemed the "crazy-ass energy" that had overtaken the room. Then he put me in a spot that was between rows and so I also became part of what he called "the massive un-feng shuing" of the room (not to mention I had a foot in my face for the entire class). It must have been a combination of the sardine-packed bodies and weird energy that made him proceed to torture us for an hour and a half. Since it didn't feel like one of those classes where I could do my own thing and lie in shavasana (he would have stepped on me), I pushed myself to the limit and figured it was a good opportunity to get my butt looking closer to Madonna's (now, let alone when I'm 48). Needless to say, I spent the class at war with myself and the crazy yoga teacher (is there any other kind?) who proceeded to conduct this draconian exercise in the name of spiritual enlightement (and a nice butt)...

I came out of class feeling great.

Just for today, I can push myself to new limits.

In all honesty, despite my written diatribes to the contrary, I'm really over the pursuit of coupledom for the mere sake of not spending corporately manufatured holidays alone (except for Christmas). The beauty of being single is that I can have male friends who I consider adorable, yet, don't think would make an appropriate match for various reasons (see blog below), without feeling guilty. In this way, being single rocks.

Today, I got a text message from my adorable salsa partner/friend/inappropriate dating possibility #55. Let's all be honest and just admit that text messaging is the hottest form of communication on the market (why do you think hormonally-laden teenagers do it all day?). I'll put it this way, I'm not going to text message my girlfriends (unless they're across the country). Why? Because I don't communicate with them in short, succinct direct messages. Oh, no, quite the opposite (a new study found that when women talk they release the same chemicals they experience during orgasm...so, considering where I'm at, I need to talk as much as possible). No, I exchange text messages primarily with guys...like my salsa partner.

Today my salsa partner texted me:

What do you want from me this Valentine's? A. nothing B. hug C. kiss D. roses E. sex F. money

I texted: r u talking to me? (Notice how hip I am to the impending erosion of the English language).

He texted: Yes. Who else? Just kidding. But out of curiousity what would u pick?

I texted: Salsa dance and a hug (Hugs are free, not to mention, I'm far behind in my quota of five hugs a day).

He texted: Good answer.

It doesn't really get any sweeter...at least, not in any recent relationship of mine.

Just for today, I can enjoy text messaging with my guy friends.

Tonight my friend and I discussed the mysterious way in which what seem to be promising possibilities in the Date-osphere seem to fizzle out like that glass of Diet Pepsi you poured last night and left on your nightstand (you know, you really shouldn't drink caffeine at night...). Or the millionth Air-Borne (does that stuff even work?) you plopped into some water in a desperate hope to stave off that flu EVERYONE in your office has been injecting into the recycled air (sound familiar?). Or whatever else causes a chemical reaction (Pepto Bismol, etc...I worked my ass off in chemistry class, but for the life of me I can't remember a single experiment)....The point is, I was talking about dating (sigh). Do I have to? (Yes, I believe do).

Dating responsibly is both far more interesting and dissappointing than the old more fun and, ultimately, stupid method of tossing care to the wind and trusting in the bond that is the forged through pheromones and a mutual passion for Todd Solondz films (hypothetically speaking). The new way entails actually taking my time to get to know a person. What a freakin' concept! Why didn't somebody tell me this 20 years ago?! The thought of how much time, pain, and energy the Waiting To Get To Know Someone system of dating would have saved me is staggering...really, it's too depressing to think about...

Now, when I meet someone I think is nice or attractive, all I have to do is ask questions and listen to the answers (so simple and, yet, so alien). So when I hear things like "DUI" or "porn collection," I make a connection between said noun and the person speaking the word (to be perfectly honest, it was the listening part that I always had trouble with).

Just for today, I can date responsibly.