Finding my way, shoeless and clueless

By Gina Angostura
NH Mirror Staff

I’m looking for direction.

And I’m not talking about directions from that snotty English woman on my GPS. She is such a control freak. My married son loves to change direction on purpose just to mess her up. “That’s RIGHT, you’re recalculating, you dominating harpy,” he yells triumphantly while driving.

Well, he doesn’t say harpy, but that’s the best substitute word I can come up with.

It must give him such a huge sense of power to get the upper hand with a pretend woman. I’m not saying he’s whipped at home, but I’m seriously contemplating getting him a frilly apron for Christmas.

No, the direction I need is what to do with the rest of my life now that it looks like I’m never going to find the man of my dreams.

I’m not kidding, either. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going to happen. I loved the line from the new show about cougars that premiered on TV the other night. The protagonist said she’ll never get married again, despite the fact that she’s still hot at 40 and has tons of money, because all the men her age are either broken, gay or dating younger women.

Truer words were ne’er spoke.

Believe me, if there were a nice, well-adjusted straight guy around these here parts, the women would be on it thicker than caramel on a Snickers.

I can’t even be a cougar anyway – not on my salary and driving my little economy car and wearing last year’s sneakers because they’re the only shoes that don’t hurt my feet.

And that’s not to mention the alien-probing procedure I had to undergo recently that ushered in my own personal Age of Agedness. You know you’re past it when you’re forced to use words like “procedure.” When did I turn into my grandfather?

And how old do I have to be to be the cougar in the nursing home, I wonder? I’m beginning to see that as the next upcoming pool of available men. Is a two-year age difference enough at that point?

I can assure you, I won’t ever be dating men in their 20s. I barely dated them when I was IN my 20s. Not in my wildest dreams will that happen now.

Speaking of, boy, did I have a wild dream the other night.

My dreams are usually a hodgepodge of images, things I’ve thought or seen or read about during the day mixed in with some psychedelic stuff left over from the ’70s. But this one was so symbolic it hurt.

In the dream, I was watching one of my favorite guitar players on stage. I was all dressed up, with a black slinky dress and great hair (hey, it’s MY dream). I looked down and realized I was wearing two different shoes. Plus, horror of horrors, they were beige.

I went into a large dark room that was full of shoes, but every time I grabbed what I thought was a nice pair of black pumps, when I went to put them on, they didn’t match again. This happened again and again, the concert still going on in the other room, until I woke up in a startled sweat, no closer to finding a match than I am in real life.

Don’t need a dream expert to interpret this one, huh?

It’s pretty clear I’m destined to remain a misfit, unmatched and missing the show.

In the nursing home, I intend to go barefoot all the time. That way, I can sneak up, cougarlike, on those guys. And without their hearing aids in, they won’t know when I’m about to pounce.

Does your misery love company? Send Gina an e-mail at singlecynic@thenhmirror.com.