I’ve been slowly working my way up to joining my high school reunion Web site. I declined to be on the planning committee, citing work commitments, and never went through all of the people who joined the site. Facebook and MySpace were enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

But then I was talking with one of my friends about her high school reunion, which is next month. (Mine is this fall.) She’s beautiful and thin and married and successful. So I was taken aback when she announced that she was worried about her reunion. Because I – single and not so thin – am worried about mine because I am one of about 10 singles, it seems. Hell, I’m in the minority for not having kids. I’m sure it will be better than I expect, especially if I can get my Gay Boyfriend (who went to our brother school) to be my date.

“How could you be worried about your reunion?” I asked my friend. “You’re insane – you have a fabulous life.”

“Um, hello, you’re successful and you’re worried about your reunion.”

She made a very good point. The problem with high school reunions is that you’ll always be who you were at the end of senior year – everyone remembers who you dated or didn’t date or wanted to date or who was a brain or who was average or who so-and-so said did whatever with four guys that one night. The girl who was pregnant at graduation will always be That Girl Who Graduated Pregnant. We pretend to be mature as adults, but being around women from my high school turns me into an awkward 16 year old. Add drinks and it only gets worse. My point is, if you judged me by high school, I am just the third wheel, tagging behind my friends with their older boyfriends in college who bought us alcohol.

This Fall is going to be hard on me. Best Friend Ever is having a baby, College Roommate is getting married, my younger brother is getting married – all within a month or so of each other. Call me melodramatic, but if you need me I’ll be sneaking a cigarette out back. So parading around in a cocktail dress with girls from high school and their husbands and baby pictures is enough to drive me to get a cat and start knitting or something.

But for some reason, hearing from my girlfriend whose perfect life I envied because she wouldn’t have to show up dateless at her high school reunion and realizing that she was annoyed about hers because everyone would want to know why she didn’t have a kid got me thinking. In the contest of “Who has the best life” everyone has a shortcoming in their own mind. My friend doesn’t have kids. I don’t have a husband. Someone else doesn’t have the job she wants.

I’m more than the Third Wheel. So much more. I’m witty and successful and intelligent and, yes, maybe even a touch charming at time. Even though I don’t always believe it or act like it, I am. (Note to self: Still go to the gym.)

So I joined the reunion site and uploaded a photo and winced as I went through the profiles – so many moms, so many marrieds, so few singles.

I better book my Gay Boyfriend early before one of the three other single ladies snaps him up.

I am out of words.

For all of the good advice and caring I’ve received this week, I am out of words.

For all of the moody music I’ve listened to, for the pint of ice cream I ate, for the mindless TV I’ve watched, I’m out of words.

I am not depressed or terribly sad or crying anymore. I’m not bitter or rage-filled. I am out of words.

So I’m sitting, curled up alone in this bed without my words to comfort me, thinking about myself, thanking the heavens for my kind friends.

Grand realizations and cathartic outbursts deserve a moment or two to sink in. So I am marinating in my past choices, pausing in this slight melancholy and planning my next step.

Note from CBS: Writing this was incredibly painful. And I debated posting it and turning comments off because I alternate between feeling completely broken and completely pathetic. It is ridiculously long (almost 1800 words) and I don’t even care.

Saturday was a ho-hum sort of day. I ran some errands and relaxed after a long week. A bit of rain in the afternoon was enough to send me nesting under blankets with bad television to keep me company. I’ve been working more than 12 hours each day – here’s to getting the job you always wanted, warts and all – and had neither the energy nor patience to deal with the outside world on Saturday night.

Late in the evening He sent me a text. He was out drinking and looking to misbehave after he left the bar. I decided some nighttime company would suit me just fine. I met him at the door in a red nightgown with thin pink straps, a glass of wine in one hand (for me) and a beer in the other (for him). He wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me in for a kiss.

“I can’t believe you met me at the door with a beer.”

“You said you wanted to keep me company. So let’s have a drink.”

We curled up on the couch, and he started talking about putting the house he and his ex bought together on the market, telling me I should go check it out. I protested since his ex is the agent and he recanted, saying that she would know it was me and it wouldn’t be good.

“She knew I was dating a [Charming],” he said.

“She knew about me?”

“Yes, back when we originally dated she knew about you.”

“I didn’t know about her.”

He paused, realizing that I was one of the women in his harem who hadn’t known I was just one of many. I could see the wheels turning in his head as I questioned him and moved my body away from his, until I was tucked in right next to the arm of the couch, as far from him as I could be on this piece of furniture.

“This all is just such a [Charming] thing to say,” he said when I asked him about dumping me by not calling a few weeks before he knew I was having surgery.

“What does that mean?”

“You never stop thinking. It’s just so [Charming].”

He leaned toward me and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me out of a tight ball of legs and nightgown.

“I should hate you,” I protested, as my body unfolded under his.

“I know you should,” he said, pressing his chest on top of mine and burying his head in my neck. My mind was racing, debating if I should push him off of me or just relax, stop harboring feelings from two years ago and go along with the physical relationship we’d started anew. He knew I was grumpy and that bringing up the woman he dumped me for wasn’t the best move. Not having words to allay my grumpiness, he pulled out all of the stops otherwise until I was literally putty in his hands, short of breath and placated.

And then something happened.

We were in my bed and I was underneath him, asking for him to hold me. He slid his hands beneath my back and cupped his fingers around my shoulders. I could feel my face flush and the beginnings of tears fill my eyes, which I squeezed tight. But as the tears piled up and I could no longer keep them in, I reached up with my hands to wipe my face and shield my eyes from him.

“Don’t cover your face like that,” he said, pushing his chest up from mine to look down at me.

But I pressed my fingers hard against my eyelids.

“Look me in the eyes. Look at me,” he breathed. “You have such beautiful crystal blue eyes.”

I let out a breathy no and he clutched my wrists and pulled my hands from my face and down on either side of my head.

“Look at me,” he said. And then he paused. “Are you crying?”

That was all it took and my tears broke through the invisible dam and ran down my cheeks.

I stammered that I was fine and he seemed to pause in place, unsure of what to do.

“Please, I’ll be fine in a minute. Just stay with me like this.”

“Why are you crying?” he asked, calmly. “Am I hurting you?”

I continued to repeat over and over again that I was fine and that I didn’t know why I was crying. He said that I obviously wasn’t. I begged him to just ignore it, to keep going, to be with me. He obeyed at first, listening to my reasoning that I would calm down. But when I didn’t he protested that he was hurting me and he just couldn’t hurt me anymore.

“I’m not crying because I don’t want to be with you,” I said.

“You’re crying because you do,” he said, his voice soft and fading.

And I just buried my face in his chest and sobbed. And he rolled off of me and I turned away from him because I was sobbing. He pressed his body against my back and wrapped his arms around me and held me so I couldn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I can’t give you want you want.”

He must’ve repeated it a million times in my ear. It became his mantra as he rocked me and held me tightly. My responses were incoherent or inconsequential or both. Never have I felt so raw and vulnerable and pathetic and desperate and alone. I wasn’t just crying for him. I was crying for every man who ever left, who ever lied, who ever didn’t want me, who passed the time with me even though he didn’t care about me. I cried for the college girl who drank and kissed too much to cover her pain. I cried for the adult woman who couldn’t trust men.

I cried because I’m 28 and feel too old to be wasting time with the wrong man. I cried because I wanted it to mean something. And because it never had. And because I was scared to let it. I cried because I didn’t know how I’d ended up here and because all of my friends were right when they warned that this casual fling was a bad idea.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t handle this,” he said. “And I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m not some innocent victim here. I’m an adult and I knew I was doing.”

“But I’ve been in your shoes and I know the signs and I should have seen them.”

“I feel like even when we dated the first time, I always liked you more, always wanted to be with you more, always tried more,” I said.

And then. Oh, and then.

“Look, you’re intelligent and funny and I love your company and talking to you,” he said. “But, you know, you just weren’t it and I knew that all along.”

He stammered over the last part. And as much as it hurt to hear and as ashamed as I was, I finally got the break up speech he never bothered to deliver two years ago. And for better or for worse, I finally knew.

He held onto me for a little longer and continued apologizing and stroking my back. I was struck by how calm he was. He said he was upset and hurt and taken aback. And I’m sure he was – no matter how horrible he was to me, he didn’t deserve my mid-coitus emotional breakdown. He just never seemed to show it. He gave me this pained, pitiful look, which I’ve seen only once before, on the face of the only other guy whose face I ever cried to. Both faces bore the same, “Oh God, I made a woman cry” emotion. Neither reflected the pain that I’d expect to see from someone who made a woman they cared about cry.

We got dressed and as he was getting ready to leave, I sat on the back of my couch in my nightgown. He walked over to give me a hug and I pulled him in for a kiss.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Just one,” I pleaded.

And I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and tugged his hair with my fingers and pulled his body into mine. I could feel his body respond to me and his breath shorten. He pulled away twice but came back to kiss me.

The third time, he stopped me and told me no, that we weren’t doing this, that he wasn’t going to keep on hurting me.

“I’m going to disappear for awhile,” he said. “But I would like to be your friend.”

I bit my lip. And he grabbed my hands and pushed them to my sides and held them there so I couldn’t hold him. And he kissed me deeply and forcefully. And then he pulled away.

He couldn’t look me in the eye as he said, “If I don’t talk to you again, I hope you have a good life.”

And then he was gone. I collapsed on my bed in my cute red nightgown and pulled my knees into my chest and cried because I’d been willing to settle for a guy who I knew wasn’t right, who I would never introduce to my family and friends. Even he didn’t want me.

I felt alone and unloved. So I did what people who feel alone and unloved do: I cried some more. Until I was choking on my sobs. Until I couldn’t make any tears. Until I passed out from the exhaustion of being so vulnerable, so melodramatic, so emotional.

When I woke up Sunday morning, my eyes were almost completely swollen shut. I took a shower, put on a face masque to soothe my skin and warm tea bags over my swollen eyelids. As I washed my face and blew out my hair without any products or flat irons or round brushes, I stopped and stared in the mirror and my splotchy, swollen face. And I saw my big crystal blue eyes. I wondered who the next person who would gaze into those eyes under bedroom light would be.

As I shook my head, my unruly waves bounced and I decided that, for now, I just needed to worry about figuring out once and for all what was wrong behind those eyes.

I am not ashamed to admit that I just downloaded “Little Miss Obsessive” by Ashlee Simpson … I’m just not telling anyone other than, you know, the people who read my blog.

I’ll put it in my secret “embarrassing” playlist, right after “Low” by Flo Rida and “I Don’t Like Your Girlfriend” by Avril Lavinge.

Which of the following situations do you think is more frustrating:

Being unceremoniously dumped by someone and then constantly reminded that he treated you unkindly or being unceremoniously dumped by someone and being occasionally reminded that he possesses the ability to be sweet to you, yet chooses to harness this power sparingly?

Note: I will not pretend that this is as eloquent or full of sense as I’d hoped.

I have heard, once, twice, maybe a thousand times, in discussion of relations between men and women that we (the women) want you (the men) to read our minds. And it drives you crazy.

And you’re correct; sometimes we do want you to read our minds. And you’re not mind readers, or at least most of those of you I’ve met aren’t. But can you really blame us for wanting you to pick on some of the subtleties of our actions or the nuances of what we say?

Yes, straightforward communication is always best. Few people could argue with that. But I think there’s something to be said for a man who picks up on my cues and hints. Who knows when I’m upset, who understands why, who wants to fix it. Maybe women rely too much on intuition at times. Or maybe, at times, men don’t pay it enough mind. It is infinitely reassuring to be understood.

If you stand us up, even for good reason, for example. Maybe you got slammed at work or maybe you fell asleep or maybe you simply just forgot. None of these things makes you a bad person. But reacting as if nothing is wrong or as if we are irrationally upset when you offer meek assurances that it won’t happen again doesn’t soothe our hurt or disappointment.

You see, we don’t just listen to your words. We look at context and body language and intent and read between the lines, even when nothing is there. Even in my most successful moments, when I am most confident, I want to feel wanted. And if you’re not giving me those feelings, I’m looking for a reason why, because I always believe that there is one.

Yes, I may say I’m over it. Maybe I’m saying that for myself because I want to be over it. Maybe I’m saying it for you because I want you to believe it. What man wants a bumbling ball of emotion? (Or if he did, would admit to it?) I want to be someone you want – and you can call that weak if you want, but I think it is mostly just reality talking. (And I don’t think women feel this exclusively.) And I do want you to want me as a strong, independent woman with my own life. But sometimes, when my pride keeps me hiding behind that “strong” façade, I want you to look at me and realize that there is something unsaid in my eyes or my words or my movements. And, dear God, I just want you to respond without me having to ask you to – save me from begging for your attention or affection. Don’t make me ask. (All of the time at least.)

Speaking from my experience, emotions aren’t formulated only through words. They’re found in actions and inaction. In tone and demeanor. And text messaging and technology confuse things – who hasn’t received an e-mail and mistook the author’s mood by their words? When left without context clues, we oftentimes assume the worst.

There is a classic moment in “The Breakup” when Jennifer Anniston’s character yells at Vince Vaughn’s that she “want[s] him to want to do the dishes.” And maybe that sounds insane – as Vince Vaughn says, “Who wants to do dishes?” But the sentiment is clear – she needs actions and proof that he’s fully invested in their relationship, from the exciting parts to the mundane.

In my newly embraced spirit of semi openness, I am not ashamed to admit that I wouldn’t turn down a man who was a part time mind reader. Who heard what I was saying and listened to what I could mean. And not in the “I’m saying no, but mean yes” way. But in the “Yes, I am still annoyed with you and perhaps there is something you can do about” way. In the “I’ll humor you because I believe you are worth it” way. In the “I’ll let you save some face this time because you’ll return the favor next time way.”

I was relaying a conversation I had with a certain man to a friend. He’d said he’d come over and didn’t and so I sent him a snippy text the next morning because I am actually 12 years old and he wrote back later to say he was sorry.

“And then I said, ‘Look, I’m going to stop worrying about this, I’m not your girlfriend. This is not supposed to be stressful for me,’ which I thought was pretty reasonable,” I told my friend. “But remember this was on instant messenger.”

“Uh-huh,” said my friend.

“So he writes back, ‘I understand’,” I said. “And so I write back, ‘I just want to have fun.’”

“Right.”

“And he writes back, ‘I know.’”

“Okay …”

“And I say, ‘So, if you’re not up for that, let me know.’”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Oh I am,’” I said. “And then whole thing drove me crazy because I was so incredibly pissed about him just not calling me to say he wasn’t coming and here I am trying to have a conversation about this and all he can muster is one or two word answers? But then I was thinking that he WAS on his Treo, so maybe that’s all he could type.”

“Wait, excuse me?” My friend had been skeptically listening to me vent, but her ears perked up at this.

“Well, you know, they have small keyboards.”

“Smaller than the keyboard on your Blackberry, which you seem to have no problems typing at length on?” she asked.

“Well, you know, not everyone can type …”

“Do Treos have full keyboards?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have the most GINORMOUS hands ever? Are his fingers so big that he can’t wiggle them? Are his hands FREAKISHLY large?” My friend asked, clearly annoyed.

“Well, not really.”

“SO, you’re telling me that you’re now making excuses for a guy for sending crap one and two word responses on his phone, which doesn’t even have one of those lame keyboards with two letters to a key?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” I said. “What was I supposed to say?”

“APOLOGY NOT ACCEPTED. WTF!” And to punctuate she airkeyboarded on her Blackberry and slammed it down on the table.

My little black dress and I are off to make some mischief in the City for the night. Packed a light wrap to keep me warm if the company, the food and the wine don’t. The goal for the night is to just stop caring, let the evening take me where it may and, of course, spend it all with some great old friends.

On the luckiness scale of one to 10, I’m at least at a 12 right now.

I don’t know why I thought it would make me feel better, but I decided on Sunday to check out of life for awhile, go off the radar and see a cheesy romantic comedy (Definitely, Maybe) all by my lonesome. My goal was to not think about anything but silly dialogue.

This was, of course, impossible. I’ve never been able to fully shut off my mind and remove myself from my often busy life before. And Sunday was no different.

My mom, always a source of reality, looked at me this week as I juggled a purse stuffed full of my daily armor – a notebook, two cell phones with chargers and earpieces, Tylenol, my Lauren clutch that doubles as a wallet, a slew of pens and highlights, a folder of two of assorted work papers, an iPod and a makeup bag – and asked, quite simply, “What if you had a husband right now? Can you imagine working this much if you had a family?”

Truth be told, I couldn’t.

I brushed off her question with a shrug and pointed out for the millionth time that I’m doing this now so that I don’t have to do it later, but her comment lingered with me as I stayed with my three cousins last night so their parents could have a much-deserved night out. As I hustled to keep up with an inquisitive two year old who melted my heart with his big eyes, inane jabbering and adorable ways – to get him to eat a carrot I’d zoomed it around like an airplane and planted it in his mouth and he immediately grabbed another carrot and mimicked my motions, shoving it in my mouth, as if to say, “Lady, if I’m eating this, so are you” – my doubts about my current situation flared up.

I don’t know if life has to be an either/or situation. Either you work your tail off all of the time at the detriment to your personal life or you focus only on your relationships and your career suffers. Maybe I can’t accept that life could be so black and white because I wouldn’t be happy if it were. I don’t want it to be.

There is this longing in my personal life for something more than single serve takeout dinners and bad reality television. And it has been evident, painfully so, for quite some time. But by never doing anything about it, by never fully dragging myself out there, by nesting in my comfy cocoon, I can save myself a modicum of rejection. I suppose.

But the one-note, work-all-of-the-time lifestyle isn’t saving me heartbreak anymore. If being rejected and feeling unloved by one particular man stings, I’ve realized lately that setting myself up to feel completely rejected by the world might hurt even more. I should giggle and enjoy a silly movie about love or hearing about an acquaintance’s engagement or a college friend’s new baby. Instead I’m angry and bitter and twisted and moved only to the point where I’m asking, “What about me?”

I do want to be the Woman in the Song – the one who makes him crazy, keeps him up at night, without whom his days would all be nights. And even as I think that, I immediately reject the notion of such as pure fantasy. We don’t all get to be the heroine. We aren’t all the Woman in the Song.

Not that I would ever give myself the chance to be Her. I’m too wrapped up in other things to truly put myself in much of a position to be loved. It’s much easier to stay stuck and blame my lack of love on anything and everything else.

I’ve become whiny. My true personality is almost unrecognizable at times. I look in the mirror and I see drive and dedication to something external. And when I do turn that focus on myself, it is only superficial – a haircut or a shopping trip or a new handbag. For someone who can be so self-centered sometimes, I sure haven’t figured out how to focus any self absorption on soothing my own soul, quieting my own fears and making myself any less alone (or lonely).

Anytime I do manage to project an air of aloof calmness, my Devil May Care attitude is purely a front. As it was the other night when, after asking for my card three weeks ago, saying he would call (he didn’t) and alluding in e-mail to the fact that we would be seeing each other before last Thursday’s group outing to a concert (we didn’t), a certain Flirty Wine Distributor ignored me during said group outing. (And I’m not writing about him right now, but if I were I’d mention how unacceptable and rude that behavior was.) To my girlfriends, I rolled my eyes, bought my own beers and announced that I was over the snub because clearly he wasn’t worth it. To myself, I wondered if he’d notice my relaxed attitude and how much fun I could have on my own and grimaced when couples danced to one of my favorite songs.

Lame.

And sure, I don’t actually care about my little Man Fling, who asked with trepidation the other day if I wanted a child and breathed a sign of relief when I said, “Yes, but not now.” But his quick Thank-God-She’s-Not-Going-To-Trap-Me answer stung more than it probably should have, so I shot back, “Yes, I want to get married first. And I know I won’t be marrying you.”

The Blackberry accused me of using him the other night, when I rebuffed his late-night advances but had earlier accepted a glass of wine from him at a bar. (And yes, he was in the wrong – I had my card out to pay for my glass of wine and he made a show of telling the bartender to put it on his tab. And even if I had demanded a free drink, I don’t subscribe to the notion that I owe any man anything in that or most any situation.) What struck me was that he might actually be right. I am letting him stroke my ego every few weeks. And I shouldn’t need attention from someone I don’t care about.

My point, which I seem to have lost, is that I am wholly unfocused toward any personal life goal right now. I shudder at the thought that I will wake up ten years from now, all by myself in this same two-person bed of my own making.

And, if only for right now and if only as a start, I’m not going to hide my fear of being alone because I want to seem strong or independent or evolved or modern.

I’m finished apologizing.

There comes a time in many a Southern Woman’s life that shakes her to the core and causes her to question much about her existence. Up becomes down. Right becomes left. The light goes away and everything becomes fuzzy.

And this time came twice for me on Friday.

“[Lawyer Friend] came with me to our first Junior League introduction meeting this week,” Southern Belle announced at dinner, nudging Lawyer Friend, one of our dinner companions.

I almost spilled my wine in my fancy roasted corn grits.

“You went to what meeting?”

You see, earlier that day one of my other good friends had announced at lunch that she too was joining the Junior League, though she appeared a touch skeptical about the whole thing. I’d almost put it out of my head when Southern Belle dropped her bombshell.

I’d assumed, obviously incorrectly, that my brushes with the Junior League were somewhat nixed when I decided after eight years of private elementary school and four years of all-girls private high school not to pledge a sorority in college. Truth be told, my friends now are a mixed bag of Greeks and GDIs, though in college I hung mostly with the latter rather than the former. I knew plenty of people when I entered college and had only briefly considered Rush when I was going to a school three states over. I wasn’t sure about the financial commitment and figured that while I had some of the credentials – the right high school, good grades, a laundry list of extracurriculars and the potential to gather the appropriate recommendations – I wasn’t sure I was Sorority Girl material.  With my (at the time) lacking fashion sense, middle class family and hips and curves and cellulite, I figured the Chi Os and Kappas wouldn’t have me; truthfully, I wasn’t that upset about it.

To me, the Junior League always seemed to be an extension of this and the birthright of the rich girls with the naturally shiny hair that’s always in place, who wear pearls to the gym and eyeliner everywhere. A sorority for adults and a social club purporting to do “service” when there are a hundred nonprofit groups in the city that could actually use some warm bodies to serve and that wouldn’t charge anyone membership fees and require sponsorship by multiple League members. The whole thing seemed more about status and who knew who and rich doctor husbands and nice cars.

And so I simply never thought that in one day two of my close friends would announce their intention to join. As an aside, how am I even old enough to be in the Junior League? Isn’t that something that soccer moms do? A check of their Web site and the pending membership of three of my acquaintances prove that I am. That coupled with the gray hairs I’ve been spotting just makes me feel old.

So there I was at dinner, politely rolling my eyes and asking only mildly abrasive questions – Isn’t it expensive? Don’t most of the women not have jobs? Aren’t you supposed to be ridiculously rich to join? What is the minimum number of pearl necklaces one must have to apply?

“Come on, you could join the Junior League with us!” Southern Belle said.

“Why? If I want to hang out with you, I don’t have to join a club to do so,” I said. “Plus, I already work too much and am on a nonprofit board. If I wanted to do more service, I would just do it.”

“Well, this meeting, it was kind of interesting,” she said.

“You should see the clothes these women worse,” Lawyer Friend offered. “They were dressed to the nines.”

“Yes, they were. Like nice dressy dresses you and I would wear to a friend’s wedding. I think I saw someone in a wrap dress I wore for a special occasion. And that’s how she dressed for a meeting!” Southern Belle said.

Their interest seemed almost voyeuristic. And, in all honesty, I’m not going to drop a friend or two because they join a club, even if I do find it to be annoyingly exclusive. We all have our reasons and if my friends want to join to network or do more service or maybe make some new acquaintances, who am I to judge? And they’d asked about the service requirement and some of the members assured them they could commit to it, even with their busy jobs.

Later, I told my Mom, no fan of the Junior League herself, about this milestone I’d reached in my adult life. Her reaction was guarded.

“So, baby, are you going to join?” she asked cautiously.

“Mom, I didn’t get invited to join.”

“Well, I’m sure we could get someone to help you out if you really wanted to join,” she said and began to list people who might be friendly to me joining. I’ve got to hand it to my Mom, she will support us in whatever it is that we truly want to do.

“Mom, if I wanted to join, I could meet the people who invited my friends and get in next year,” I interrupted.

I stopped short of adding that my public relations background means I professionally know what to say in certain situations – meeting Junior Leaguers included – and could handle an introduction if I needed one made.

“So, will you try? Next year?”

“MOM, come on. Have you met me?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Well thank God,” she said.

And a look of relief spread across her face, as if she were thinking that even though we disagree on religion and politics and fashion and lifestyle and my opinionated nature and potential husbands and appropriate height of high heel and how much cleavage is too much and on the merits of Chardonnay versus Pinot Gris and timeframe for procreation and standard of housekeeping, she could finally relax knowing that at least I wasn’t going to become a Pod Person.