When papers come around to sign for the second divorce, that gets a person thinking. My conclusion is that I have a broken “picker.” Somehow in the bestowing of good pickers in the gene pool, I missed out. I looked at how my parents picked. The mere fact that they even picked each other makes zero sense. That leads a person to wonder what drug both of them were taking because the two of them together adds up to a serious wrong.
Lucky me, my children say that about both my choices, “Mom, what were you thinking?”
“Who says thinking had anything to do with it?” I say.
So here I am single again. I feel like I am at a ski resort about to get on the chairlift calling out, “Single.”
There is no shame in this, just excitement in seeing who I’ll pick, or who will pick me this time.
So, it is established that my picker is broken. I decided to conduct an investigation to see where the error message is and what is misfiring. After a two-minute reflection, I determined I am guilty of falling for the sparkle. If the guy is shiny and sparkly with glitter all over—well the rush starts pumping and I’m feeling the high. Wow. That gets me going just thinking about it.
Ok, ok, bad picker, bad picker, I remind myself. So, to keep myself safe, since apparently I have to live with a defective gene—if it sparkles walk away. I can do that.
“Oh, look sparkle.”
