Lonely Head Seeks Chest

You know how it is when you read something that creates such a vivid mental picture it actually freaks you out a little bit? Like, whoa, where has this jabby shard of melancholia been hiding?

I'm just about done with the first true page-turner I've read this summer, "Final Girls" by Riley Sager, and there is a short passage in it that shook me right to my spinster core. It's a scene where the protagonist is seeking comfort from her almost-fiance:

"I press myself deeper into Jeff's chest, his tie slick on my cheek. He mistakes it for distress, which I suppose it is, and holds me tighter. I let myself be held, turning inward..."

That's all it took to send me into a semi-hypnotic state, momentarily, while my brain traveled back in time. Which time? I'm not sure it was any specific one, it almost felt like a "best of chest resting" collection. All the times I was close enough to someone to feel their heartbeat in my bones, hear the warm comfortable rumble of a deep voice at its wellspring. Maybe it was some sort of throwback to childhood and the memory of my dad picking me up, carrying a sleepy little me from the car to my bed. Or the countless times, over the years, of falling into a blissful slumber accompanied by the cadence of a lover breathing in and out.

Whatever it was, it was so clear and so strong and left me so specifically LONGING. Normally this stuff hits me with a little generalized angst, you know? Like a vague sort of wanting, missing.

It dawned on me that the act of resting my melon on a man's chest is something I really love to do and something I apparently miss. Quite a bit. Reflecting on the spastic attempts I've made to mate over the past few years, it occurred to me that I do sometimes attempt this maneuver but am usually thwarted by a: a reluctant/non-compliant chest (or else we're sitting up which is just kind of awkward) or b: focusing too hard on being quiet (the hazards of cohabitation with adult offspring and one overprotective dog).

It's almost enough to lure me back into the dating scene. Almost. Just the thought of finally having a home plate again, having that security and hearing the vibrato of something that's not running on two AA batteries...but then I remember.

Fun single gal looking for dude with chest

I remember that in Dating Years I am approximately the same age as Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula and I remember all of the horror stories about men my age who will not even glance at a woman unless she's barely into her thirties. And the all-too-familiar tale of married guys who are just looking for a piece on the side or the ones who seem like they're all that and the proverbial bag of chips but then end up ghosting you.

I remember all of that and it suddenly seems like so much work for such little reward. Finding someone in my age range who isn't just a player or who isn't married or who isn't an emotionally stunted scaredy cat is akin to finding that perfect pair of jeans: we all know they're out there, dammit. They're just so hard to locate!

There's this old song by the group Cracker, it's called Low and I will admit it to you all, I love it (oh early 90's you were so awesome). It pops up regularly in my ears while working out and I hardly ever skip it. My favorite verse in the song is this one:

A million poppies gonna help me sleep
With just one rose that knows your name
The fruit is rusting on the vine
The fruit is calling from the trees

"The fruit is rusting on the vine", my goodness I don't know if there's ever been a more apt description of what it's like to be a middle aged single woman. Sometimes I wonder if that's just how it's going to be, me hanging here, going from ripe to withered to dead on the vine without being able to share it all with someone (god help me for using this word) special.

It makes me think about our time we have on this planet and how we choose to spend it. Perhaps that temporary longing is something I just have to learn to live with. Or maybe it's something I just have to heed.

Yes, my friends, I got all of this from reading a tiny snippet of words in a book about serial killers.

It is exhausting being me.