During six years of singlehood in my 20s, I became a person I did not know. Before, I had always been a reader. I walked to the library several times a week as a kid and stayed up late into the night reading under my blankets with a flashlight. But shortly after the spiral-bound thesis took its place on my shelf next to the degree, I stopped reading.
The first is age — and the second is dressing to attract men. There is a well-known list of clothes men are supposed to hate, with harem pants, dungarees, culottes and plaid at the top. Beyond these well-documented passion-killers, anything too quirky, in strong colours, and following fashion trends is considered risky. Combine that with all the things we are not supposed to wear over a certain age — short skirts, tight trousers, anything leather — and getting dressed for a date in midlife becomes so daunting, no one would blame you for giving up and staying in. But there is another way to approach it: forget what other people think and wear what you like. People who dress to please themselves project their innate self-confidence. And nothing is more attractive than someone who is comfortable in their own skin.
I love exposition: flowing sentences, tight action, enveloping description. Prose is great. Well-written dialogue is not conversation.
My husband flirted with life. The first time I met him, he turned me upside down. It was at a campus party — darkened rooms, lit candles, lots of beer. Suddenly I was upended and staring at the floor. Strong arms held me secure for what seemed an eternity and was probably three or four seconds.