Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Love in the Third Degree.
I bought a new dress for this weekend’s date. That surprised me. I mean, it’s not like I’m in love. Or intend to be. I’m quite sober about most of the men I meet these days.
After all, I have a closet full of clothes, everything from lace to velvet to vinyl and in probably 3 different sizes (too big, too snug, and this-porridge-is-just-right). Heels of every height, including ones I won’t walk in but they seem to scream, “Worship here!”
I’m having trouble figuring out why I bought a new dress, though. It’s not appropriate to anything but spurring a man’s lustier intentions…but dang, I do have shoes already that match perfectly.
I have plenty of perfect springtime dresses—and I vastly prefer the sensuality of skirts brushing along my legs vs pants—including dresses I’ve worn out and about with other men. So why a new dress?
I guess I am a tiny bit excited about this particular date because of the particular plans we have. We’re going some place we’ve both been dying to try for a long time.
The more feminine concoctions in my closet seem to mock me as I start to understand. I’ve looked at them all before and wondered which I should wear with this man or that man who might turn out to be special.
Ah, damn. I get it now. It’s my deeply romantic nature, once again.
I like the idea of dating only men I admire, adore, would love to spend time with. I like the idea of dating men where my expectations are high.
And that’s the difference. This will be the first time in the past 3 years that I’ve been out with someone not because I thought he might become someone “special.”
And that lack of interest in him as anything more than a travel companion called for a garment that had never been associated with the expectation of being remembered as what I wore on my first date with someone who did turn out to be special.
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