I’m having a serious catch up with a six-pack of Coors, tonight. I’m not drowing my sorrows, if that’s what you’re thinking. As I take a moment to reflect, I’ve no real sorrows to speak of. My life is going pretty well. So, this is a celebration of sorts. Monday, the ex (we’ll call him “PIMA” — it’s an acronym, yes) and I go to formally file for divorce. Tonight, I’m celebrating the fact that, in 60 to 90 days, I’ll have my freedom, and my name, back.

But that’s not what this blog entry is about, really.

As all y’all know, I tend to write about what I think, or rather what I’m thinking about at the time. I’m kind of a stream of consciousness person. And tonight, I’m thinking about me–the me I enjoy being, and my friends, or, well, one in particular. Kind of wondering where he’s at, and if he’s doing well. We’ll call him “Cowboy”, because that’s what I have called him since the night we met.

This is a love story, of sorts.

I was out with my very good friend, and brother-from-another-mother, the Master-Chief, for a girls’ night out. We’d killed off a fifth, or two, of good Kentucky Whiskey, and decided that breakfast was in order. We were sitting in the all-night diner, when the best-looking man I’ve ever seen walked in, under a big, black Stetson (which will come into play, later). He was surrounded by his usual entourage of friends, because he drew people the way ripe bananas draw fruit-flies, but he wanted to converse with Master-Chief, so he ended up at our table.

I’d like to say he was a tall drink of water, but he wasn’t. I’m several inches taller than he, but that doesn’t signify, because his personality was large enough to fill a room. All dark hair, and darker eyes, olive skin, and finely-chisled lips that just really needed to be glued to mine for several hours. I’ll admit I was smitten.

That big, black Stetson was taunting me, so I put my big-girl panties on, and reached out, plucked it from his head, and set it squarely on my own (Mind you, at this point, we’d been introduced, had shaken hands, exchanged hello’s, and that was it). He looked at me, a smug grin on his lovely face, and informed me of ‘the Rule’–if you steal the cowboy’s hat, you’ve gotta ride the cowboy. I looked at him, pulled his hat down low, and replied, “Alright, then.”

As it ended up, we did kiss that night, in the parking lot, as he re-claimed his hat, with a promise of “I’ll see you later.” (which he kept) But it was four months of intense flirtation before the naughty bits occurred. We called it ‘foreplay’. In my mind, he was my cowboy. And I guess he’ll always own a small piece of my soul, simply because he brought out the best in me.

I often wonder what happened to the lovely, free-spirited, outgoing, vivacious, self-assured woman that I was around Cowboy? I also wonder, will I get her back in my divorce settlement? It wasn’t something I worked at (I wish it was that easy!) but rather, something I just became.

I haven’t heard from Cowboy in a while–largely b/c PIMA didn’t understand the nature of our friendship, and we kind of lost touch. Yes, I loved him, after a fashion, but to be perfectly honest, I think I was more in love with the boost he gave to my ego. I asked him once why we never became more than what we were. He told me, “Because I am afraid I’ll screw it up.” And perhpas he would’ve, or maybe I would’ve. Who really knows? So I am content with lovely memories of Cowboy, and of the me I used to be.

So, in the finer words of Christian Kane, “I’m not drinkin’ to drown anything, I’m just drinkin’ to drink.” Cheers!

I bid you peace.

Advertisements