The old gray mare just ain't what she used to be. Or is she?

Friday night the Jeepster took me to dinner to celebrate the fairly good chance that he will be offered a plum new job.  We went to my favorite local restaurant, Tapas Downtown, and it was pleasantly crowded. While we waited at the bar for a table a casual friend, whom I hadn't seen in the year or so since I quit working, came over to hug me and tell me how terrific I look and how I would definitely find a great job soon because, essentially, I'm too good to be true.

There is nothing like a compliment, or even better a thick layer of compliments, to bolster one's flagging self-confidence.  Especially praise from an attractive, charming and very successful woman; why would I argue with that?

So when the hostess came to fetch us I was feeling buoyant and adorable and naturally she seated us a scant twenty inches from a man with whom I had a serious yearlong relationship, which he terminated because I was, as I recall,  no fun.  Hold the phone, didn't a very reliable source just tell me I was fabulous?

However, this was a celebration of sorts and I have at least a modicum of class, so I kept my mouth closed and my eyes averted while Dr Fun liplocked with his date, seated a mere twelve inches to my right.  I am not making that up.  They were kissing across the table.  They were making the yummy sound.  They probably got sauce on their shirts.  I imagined spilling a diet Pepsi into his lap but my mother raised me better than that.  Also I am cuter than Fun Date. And I would never make out in a restaurant.

I like to believe I know better but I suddenly I felt faded and shabby and acutely not fun.  Of course I need to listen to actual people who prop me up and not the inner voices who chide me for growing out my gray hair; for gaining ten pounds; for failing at my job after eight years of success.  But without a doubt, it's a journey with no clear destination in sight.

Seriously though:  the yummy sound?  I give up.