In which I continue my tyrade about computers and men.

I truly underwent some kind of Internet addiction withdrawal while my computer had its little tantrum. I believe it must have been nearing the terminal stage ( my corny sister would love that rotten pun) because I even have a computer at work. But I can't do what I WANT on that computer. All Internet activity is monitored. I'm still waiting to find out what is going to happen to me when the computer police tell my boss that I went to You Tube and watched that Chris Rock skit "How To Not Get Your Ass Kicked By The Police." I couldn't resist when I actually talked to someone who had never seen it. It's one of those things in life that you must not miss before you die. Since I have been near death lately, it was only natural that I would have to see it one more time and share it with another. It was all very innocent.

But now I know that I do have a problem. I enjoy typing out my daily gripes and adding images when my words fall short of my real feelings. You simply cannot do that with a regular journal. Plus, I always end up buying journals that are too big or too small; too many lines on the sheet or lines that are too large; books that fall apart before I get six pages written; books that start to annoy me because I associate it with the last evil person I've profiled. This just feels better. Am I an addict? Is there something wrong with it? I guess it is only a problem if I'm too poor to support my habit, and if the damn thing breaks again, it will very well be the case.

The days I missed being able to write, I had so many things to talk about! I had read an old book from the back of my closet for want of anything new, and it was a whole new experience. I fell in love with the author and couldn't talk or write about anything else for at least a whole day. The guy was Richard Hillary, a young fighter pilot who was shot down over the English Channel during WWII. I found a link to an online version of the book here. My favorite part:

The water was not unwarm and I was pleasantly surprised to find that my life-jacket kept me afloat. I looked at my watch: it was not there. Then, for the first time, I noticed how burnt my hands were: down to the writs, the skin was dead white and hung in shreds: I felt faintly sick from the smell of burn flesh. By closing one eye I could see my lips, jutting out like motor tires. The side of my parachute harness was cutting into me particularly painfully, so that I guessed my right hip was burnt. I made a further attempt to undo the harness, but owing to the pain of my hands, soon desisted. Instead, I lay back and reviewed my position: I was a long way from land; my hands were burnt, and so, judging from the pain of the sun, was my face; it was unlikely that anyone on shore had seen me come down and even more unlikely that a ship would come by; I could float for possibly four hours in my Mae West. I began to feel that I had perhaps been premature in considering myself lucky to have escaped from the machine. After about half an hour my teeth started chattering, and to quiet them I kept up a regular tuneless chant, varying it from time to time with calls for help. There can be few more futile pastimes than yelling for help alone in the North Sea, with a solitary seagull for company, yet it gave me a certain melancholy satisfaction, for I had once written a short story in which the hero (falling from a liner) had done just this. It was rejected.

I love this guy! But of course, he's dead, just like all the other lovable guys.

Today, I ran into a colleague whom I haven't seen in awhile. He's only about fifty years older than me. I was happy to see him, and we chatted about our work. He is well-respected in our business, and knows EVERYBODY. I told him that I'd applied for a different position in my department, which might get me transferred to a different office- but that I plan on working towards getting back to my current office so I'd probably still see him around here and there. He wished me luck, bla bla bla, and as we were saying our goodbye, he said, "Hey, would you like to have lunch sometime?" It wasn't a professional kind of a question because I noticed this OLD MAN giving me the once-over, and it made me want to vomit!

First I thought he was married! Although I don't remember seeing a ring on his finger- although I didn't look today because I was so startled I immediately started trotting back to the building... But damn! I looked UP to this guy, sort-of like a mentor, a fatherly figure in a way. But noooooo. Just because I'm happy to see him, now it's time to try to get into my pants, to put it crassly. I realized that I never know what to say when I get asked out. I freeze up. I say, "Oh yeah, of course," because I've been switched over to auto-pilot.

When I got back to the safety of my office, I tried to process what had just happened. Did I just get asked out by an OLD, possibly MARRIED guy? Why was I so nervous about it? Damn, it's as if I thought I was about to be attacked and sexually assaulted just because he asked me to have lunch with him "sometime." What a psycho you are, MH. I asked a co-worker if she knew whether or not the guy was married. She said that she had always assumed that he was, but she wasn't sure. She said, "He's an attractive man, though. If I weren't married, I'd consider having lunch with him." I don't find him all that attractive, but then again, he isn't gross or anything. He seems like one of those genuinely nice people who you can count on to do the right thing. If he's married, of course, that whole analysis of his character will send me to a counselor or a psychic, questioning why I can't read people anymore.

But the more I thought about it, the more I could see why so many younger women choose older men. First, maybe their levels of maturity are a better match. Because most of the guys my age are less mature than most women my age and we all know it. Also, maybe I wouldn't have to worry about his cheating since he's finally getting too old for all of that shit. And he probably isn't going to be using me for my meager paycheck because I know damn well that he has GOT to be banking some serious cash, but at the very least he has a kick-ass retirement account by now. Then of course I can't deny that pretty much everybody Audrey Hepburn got with (except George Peppard in B@T) had to be way too old for her. She didn't have one problem with it apparently.

But I told myself I simply was not going to see anybody who I wasn't hopelessly attracted to. I'm sick of getting sucked into relationships because I had no backbone and wasn't assertive enough to say, "I'm just not that into you."

It would also be a huge PITA if I started seeing this guy, I come to my senses, break it off, and then I have to run into him and everybody else who knows the sordid details of our May-December romance for God knows how long. Yeah, I'll just have to pass on this one.

Where is my George Peppard?