Woody & My IBF

I could not, would not, live in so much isolation and boredom anymore.  In the neighborhood, we have exactly three places to eat, and that is if you count the one on the golf course a little outside the perimeter.

Our neighborhood consists of large expanses of manicured grazing fields, punctuated by tangles of native trees and brush.  One refers to the family homestead as a farm.  Some farms have actual gentleman farming going on, but most have a stone horse barn larger and more well-appointed than the home. They are absurdly valuable, yet everyone just lives on their so-denoted farm..

There are about five small homes in the neighborhood.  One is a renovated Friends Meeting House.  Another is a remnant of a brief period of 1950's exurban flight.  One is mine.

One golden summer, we had dinner on the possessed porch at the meeting house almost every night.  It was always Susan, Susie, LouLou, Michael (an honorary girl for girls' nights out), and me. Lou and I were both antsy. I asked her to navigate for me in the Peking to Paris Vintage Motor Rally, 32 days of questionable roads, lodging, food and toilets, not to mention the route through the 'stans and Iran. She was game. Everyone told me that she would drop out, but we went to the car preparer every Thursday to learn how to take apart and put together our 1941 Ford convertible. 


Then she found she would be a grandma.  I should tell you that Lou is a children's illustrator, and paints wildly vivid murals for her clients. She quit.

I tried to find a new navigator.  I really wanted another woman as we would be the first pair from the US. I spoke with a man who jingled his ice in the scotch glass as we talked. Besides being kinda creepy, intimating that the rally wasn't all he was interested in, I found out that he was truly wicked to Susie.  I put a note on the rally's website.  Had two good leads, one a Danish medical student, and the other an English geologist (doesn't get lost).  The latter dogged me ceaselessly, in a good way.  I finally found a local woman and did an unsuccessful test run on the Mountain Mille.  A whole 'nother story for a different day.

I made calls upon calls.  Rich guys didn't need me.  Poor ones couldn't contribute. Tried young ones, old ones, big ones, small ones (and would have taken Dr. Seuss), to no avail.  Introduction after introduction after introduction. I don't even remember the call that would pull my life in a whole different direction.

Started with a half glass of wine after not hearing from him in twelve hours, and that in a response to my text. Continued into the rest of the bottle as I realized for the first time that I cared, and am in danger of becoming the chaser that I'd not been in so long, and that I am terrified of becoming again. The only thing left in the house is a box of Carr's Table Water crackers and a stick of butter. At least they are cracked pepper. I can't eat another bowl of ice cream, and am also embarrassed that I visit the Turkey Hill up the road on a regular basis for more. Last time I went, driving my beat up pickup, the guy next to me in line kidded that it must be just me and a sad movie. Truer than he knew. Its me watching Hoarders on the DVR, my iPhone on the sofa next to me, and waiting for the schooooop of an incoming message. I was not a drinker before this started. Not at all.

He's so young, and I am appalled at myself. I'm old enough to be a saber-toothed tiger and was not, am not, on the prowl. He found me.

At 33, he is a grown man. I have to remind myself that at his age I was having a baby. I had a business and a house. And a station wagon, my dream, with the flats of pansies in the back, just like my mother had. I felt, no said, that if I could live the life I had forever, I would be the happiest woman in the world. I meant it.

Somehow, though, I think that he's a teenager. It's in my mind, not his. I think of the cellulite on my thighs, fat I never had until I had no hormones. Please, please can I do something about vaginal atrophy. What a thought. Not only am I not using it, but I'm not sure I could if I tried.

I have been divorced for 8 years. This apparently does not preclude the gifting of automated vacuum cleaners and NFL-themed polyester products. Now don't get me wrong, I am as big a football fan as anyone, but another sunggie "as seen on TV" is just plain too much to bear. Like most wives, I have been receiving "practical" gifts for every occasion. Pots and pans, makers for waffles and popcorn, the latest steam iron... In fact, I have even been guilty of suggesting such metal devices myself. It just seemed so selfish to ask for a diamond ring, a pearl bracelet, heck, a manicure.

My imaginary boyfriend would always give me romantic gifts that were so perfect that even I wouldn't have thought of them. And I wouldn't be embarrassed by the touching sentiments behind them. In fact I wouldn't mind the touching at all.

When I was going to meet the possibly-real imaginary boyfriend, I lavished expensive lingerie upon myself. One thousand dollars worth,to be exact. I twisted back and forth in front of the full-length mirror, checking for back fat, seeing how the leg openings hit my 51 year-old hips, how my breasts bulged out under my armpits. Oh god, I never used to have cellulite. I chose to concentrate on the fine detail of my new bras and fancy panties.

What color to choose? I bought the red set because the panties have a perfectly-pleated frill on the sides, and miraculously still lay flat under my pants. I bought the midnight blue set because it is wildly elegant. The blue ones have criss-cross detailing between the cups and in the middle of the waistband (a hip band?), exactly at the spot on my lower back where I imagined my IBF would kiss me. I bought an exquisite taupe ensemble, sophisticated as it gets, but found that when I went to Florida it was just too deep. The black ones are perfect, but may be a bit much for a first meeting with the maybe real IBF. He is 33.

I posted a request for a traveling companion on Etsy's Alchemy Section.

Imaginary boyfriend full-sized stand up and sit down

I am running away from home (I'm 51) with my imaginary boyfriend in my 1941 Ford woody. Going wherever the heck I feel like. 
 
I would like a traveling companion, one that can stand up and pose for pix in front of historic landmark plaques. However, we will be driving quite a bit, and I'd like him next to me-- thus, the sitting down part. I have no idea how you would articulate him, but that's why you're the artist and I'm not! 
 
Brad should be a rather retro fellow to go with the car. I don't care if he's a real person look-alike. Heck, he could be a heck of traffic stopper in his illustrated glory.

I am not opposed to having IBF join me somewhere down the road, so if the deadline is a problem we can probably work it out.

Oh, and I'd love anyone's recommendations for scenic roads, dive bars, mom's home cookin' joints, BBQ, flop houses, and some friendly conversation.

Imaginary boyfriend and I will be blogging about our journey. And did I mention that a 33 year-old man just broke my heart?