Here's to holly and envy hanging up, and something wet in every cup

So you email him again, because last time you didn’t hear back. It’s a last ditch effort, much like buying that Paula Abdul aerobics DVD because you just know the embarrassment will force you into action. It works.

You hear back that he’s met someone, this somemale with whom you’ve had only a few flirtatious and well-crafted emails. The man you put on hold the night of your first date with a frenzy of words about a family emergency, sentences intended not to betray too much about an emerging illness.

Surprisingly, unlike the volcanic hatred you seem to have for city drivers on Razors and the sloth-like golden girls in the flu shot line, you are excited for him. Happy for him, even. There was anticipation in his email, this paragraph about someone else, and you remember that feeling. The one you don’t get in your chest, but instead in your tummy. The one that prompts you to use the cell phone you so often wish to destroy.

A long day and no Thursday invitations, you cuddle up with a warm computer, a new corner store Bonacchi and some decidedly familiar Baked Doritos. And you smile for this person you don’t even yet know. And you wonder when it will be your turn.