Odds Are...

I had a funny thought this evening: All of the men that I have slept with have Facebook profiles. But I'm not "Facebook friends" with all of them -- only 80 percent of them. I don't know why that's significant. It seemed sort of young or post-modern or Orwellian -- that proof of your existence (sexual or otherwise) can be distilled down to a pixelated web page. So is blogging, though, I suppose.

N and I are still together, though we haven't defined what "together" means. Again, I'm letting him drive, and I actually told him that on Saturday. He took me to one of the most beautful dinners of my life that night, and I met some of his friends out at a birthday party afterward. We ended up in an Irish dive bar on the Upper East in our cocktail getups. It was fantastically contrary, and I was happy that I was experiencing it with him. Afterward we had sex and talked in bed about the distant future until the sun came up.

He's going away for work this weekend, and I will miss him. But it's funny -- I don't have that wobbly, nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach that he won't miss me or that he'll hook up with some skank or that I won't be okay if he doesn't call me. I feel more relaxed about everything, maybe because I feel he's coming around, or maybe because I'm just tired of worrying about this pseudo-relationship all the damn time.

Statistically, it's unlikely that N and I will work out forever. But it is statistically likely that he'll make me happy for some period of time -- some either short- or long-lived space of this life that I'll look back on (mostly) fondly. That's not a bad thing to be holding in my heart right now.