Spinster.

There is a cute boy who works in my building. And of course I say "boy" though he is likely in his thirties. This keeps me in the "girl" camp because oh my God I am not a woman yet. Or womyn. Or lady. Though I do like the phrase lady-bird. I don't know why. Perhaps because I see a bird in a very elaborate hat. And that makes me smile.

Anyway.

So this boy-man who works in my building. I do not think I've tipped the stalker-scale yet. We've noticed each other in the garage. We've exchanged "oh, the dollar bill feeder isn't working" pleasantries at the vending machines. We've tossed shy smiles back and forth.

And I am a total pussy.

Because I will not go any further than this. Will not lay myself open to vulnerabilities and rejection and, lord save us, possibilities. Gracious, no.

I can hear Bum hitting her head against the keyboard right now. Perhaps screaming at me in that way that makes her voice go up just a little with exasperation. All very charmingly accented.

Because I feel like my days of flirting without alcohol are past. And I will be the woman in her house with millions of dollars worth of art that articles are written about and journalists can't call just "woman" or "lady" or "that crazy old bat." No, the call her spinster.

Except I will be the spinster with millions of dollars worth of cosmetics and trashy novels.

That?

That right there?

That's called catastrophizing. Pro tour.