I’m watching my mom and my dad lying on the couch together, and quickly calculate how long they’ve been married: 32 years. Holy shit.

I am almost half my father’s age.

My dad was 32 and my mom was 30 when they got married.

After that, I’m out of goal posts.

Except maybe for 33, the age that Jesus was reputedly crucified.

But we won’t dwell on that.

There are worse things than to be friends with an extremely intelligent, wonderfully beautiful, magically creative woman. The first difficulty to be overcome is my disbelief that such a woman would even bother talking to me.

From that point on, it’s a matter of reigning in my exuberant imagination.

I have misread the signs quite a few times before. Just because she likes me doesn’t mean she likes me in That Way™. Herein lies the second difficulty, and pretty much this is where the process ends. Sometimes abruptly. Sometimes in incredibly excruciating, protracted ways.

The next part of the process involves sticking around until she does find someone whom she likes in That Way™. Then it’s back to the Pit of Despair for me.

I keep hoping that it’s going to turn out differently some day. It’s all mathematics, right? Statistical probability.

Given enough time, whatever is possible will be inevitable.

I’ve got to assume that it’s possible.

The time thing is kind of against me though.

I keep trying not to think too far ahead. Why I can’t just live in the moment I have no idea.