Woman on the Verge of Paradise: Mr. Par's Taunting

  Sign reads: "May you find Paradise to be all its name implies."

Thanks for joining me on the verge of Paradise, as a new chapter of my life unfolds. This series can be found in the Paradise button to the left. While I alter some details as I see fit, I do my best to remain true to place and time. Mojo really is my housemate's cat. How could I change that name?   This post follows from the last. Enjoy.
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I’m a misfit too. Scanning the scene, I note approximately two churches per residence and just one little synagogue in the greater area. That’s one temple for over 100,000 people. Further, It seems everyone has a family and works for Wal-Mart or Country Waffles. One does not profess liberal values in Paradise lest one has no regard for one’s life.  Chico’s a bit more open-minded with the campus influence. The city’s full of bronze beauties and young studs who strive to change the world or score some booty at the next frat party. At 45 –gulp- I’m hopelessly trying to find a niche and, admittedly, a man.

I wish Paradise wasn’t about finding the man, but it is. We’re hard- wired pre-birth to believe it. Celibacy is really only my choice when it’s the only sane choice. There we have it. I stupidly equate Paradise with a man. Mr. Paradise shows up on a whim, strutting my way in Armani swag presenting a 10-pound box of Swiss chocolates. I swoon with foolish ecstasy, declare our relationship to the world, and give Mr. Par my all. By the time I sneeze the Par’s gone subpar and this cycle repeats.

Last Wednesday, for example, Mr. Par approached me at a salsa club. He had a pulse, I figured, so I knew our dance would certainly culminate in happily-ever-after. During a second twirl, I could picture our wedding –a quaint ceremony in Vegas with Elvis and a Rabbi, or maybe Elvis was the Rabbi…I couldn’t tell if he was wearing a kippah[1]. That part was fuzzy, pelvic thrusting (Elvis’, not mine) and all.  Upon the third twirl, though, the glow of my partner’s wedding band blinded me with clarity: Paradise taunts!

I know, I know. I’ll find someone in time, maybe. Enjoy my life without the complications and heartaches, etc. And I do. But I can’t ignore Mr. Par when he enters the picture with flirtatious winks.  And I can’t pretend to not be looking for him when I just am. Always. So he’s forever popping into and out of view. When he does, I can't help but stare nonchalantly at such an appealing package.

The experts and Dr. Phil inundate us singletons with mishegosh[2] regarding the need to love yourself first, no one else can complete your life, look inward not outward and blah blah blah and all that other crap I hate to hear. Because it’s true.

Sigh.

Slurp. Slurp, slurp. Damnit. Still nothing.

I pry my lips from the straw and sit back again. Staring at the bottom of an empty cup, I relish in the sweet flavors lingering on my tongue. Paradise is, after all, only eight miles away. Maybe even closer. I guess I just don’t know it.

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[1] The little beanie some Jews wear on their heads, especially during worship.

[2] Yiddish for foolishness, nonsense.