Date Nite.

I’ve invited a perfectly pleasant young woman over to my house to eat and watch Pee Wee’s Playhouse.  She’ll be here within the hour and I’m scrambling like a wild man trying to throw dinner together.  I used to be able to cook real meals but now I’m being pulled in every direction.  I’m making burgers because I don’t want her to think I care too much.  But The longer it takes her to get here the more spectacular the meal becomes; It would seem there are now sautéed mushrooms and steamed kale, chips and salsa and beer.  Before the night is over I’ll have asked her to marry me.  Such is the nature of loneliness.  In the shower I start laughing to myself about what a nervous wreck I’ve become. I start to distress about how I’m over fragranced and how all my name brand condiments won’t be the least bit impressive to her.  She’s more likely than not one of these really progressive types; no sugar, no caffeine, no sex with guys who whimper on the exhale.