Singled Out: The Forgotten Lesbian Tryst

I have a huge problem ... I'm almost 40!

Now don't get me wrong, I am not at all panicking about the fact that I am getting older and nearing that middle decaying point of my life. I'm certainly not one of those women agonizing about the fatal beginning of the end - you know that underrated phase when your body kind of starts to run low on fuel and brings you a shit-load of health problems with names you had never heard of before. That's right! I'm not one bit worried about the 'coming soon to a theater near me' sudden, inescapable invasion of wrinkles or the inevitable menopause attack. I'm ready, bring it on! You won't see me rush to get under the knife, that's for sure!

If, as they say, 40 is the new 30, then I still have quite a lot of mileage to accumulate; not to mention that I am very much looking forward to going through my so called midlife crisis. With my level of deranged imagination God knows what I'll come up with to get my 15 minutes of unpopular fame.

So, if I'm such a fan of reality, why the "turning forty" bitch fest, you might ask? Well, my main issue with the aging factor is that it seems to be damaging my most precious and useful organ...my brain. And more precisely...my memory, meaning my ability to remember things I had specifically made a mental note to forget.
Seriously! Isn't that supposed to be one of the perks of aging? The older you grow, the further away from the things you did in your past you get, right? Apparently NOT!

And it's because of those stupid modern inventions like Facebook that you can't escape from your past. As much as on a business level I love the functionality of these social networks, on a personal level I absolutely detest them - not because they're potential invasion of privacy, because they've become a platform for a handful of retards in cyberspace to spew out some of the dumbest comments ever known to mankind and annoyingly expose their fucking boring, meaningless lives.

Dare I take a minute here to explain to those bozos that these social networking sites - yes Facebook would be one of them - are a direct extension of their real life character and a reflection of their social image and personality? Thank God for them I don't work in HR because a lot of people would get their asses fired - I'm just saying!    

Anyway, back to my own Facebook woe. A few weeks ago, I accepted a friend request from a girl -I'll call her -- Sandra.  Admittedly, I didn't know her from Adam but her picture was super cute and I figured she seemed decent enough to join my circle of so-called friends - half of whom, of course, I have never socially hung out with.

As soon as she was officially added to my virtual entourage, a flurry of "total waste of my time that I'll never get back" messages started to pour in my inbox. Granted after the third message, I could have just easily deleted them and refuse to pay any further attention to her inconsequential attempt at a correspondence, or simply remove her irritating ass from my friends' list. But the problem was that the content of that third missive was so disturbing to me, I evidently had to stay tuned for more.

Sandra unabashedly claimed that she and I allegedly had a steamy hot sexual liaison some half a decade ago.  The news totally threw me for a loop. Frankly, if, indeed, our purported connection was "hot" and "steamy", you think I would have remembered it - at least partially.

I'm not denying the fact that my sensational youth contains sporadic episodes of liquid courage intoxication binges, but they're at best blurry in my mind now - meaning that for lack of accumulating black outs, I've collected nebulous assurances of anterior promiscuous prowess. And Sandra was not even vaguely one of them!

That was THE tragedy. For the life of me, I couldn't recall having ever met this girl, let alone sleeping with her! But she was dead serious. In all objectivity, why would she fabricate such a story? My only consolation at that point was that, clearly, I was quite a memorable catch- why else would she had moved mountains to reconnect with me?

What can I say! Leave it to Facebook to restore old trashed filed back onto the desktop of my present life. What posed a real psychological problem to me was not the fact that I apparently had an affair with that Sandra girl - thank God she photographs attractively well -- but that the primary side effect of the ticking of the clock was loss of memory cells. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment! I didn't particularly need to be reminded that I was already losing my mind.

Needless to say, when she suggested we meet for coffee, I gladly obliged. I figured, perhaps a face-to-face encounter would trigger the miraculous rejuvenation of my amnesic brain cells - although I did consider as a backup option booking an emergency trip to Lourdes. Alright, let's cut the crap! To be totally honest, my disposition to readily pencil in a rendezvous with her was purely motivated by the superficial fact that her Facebook photographic documents evidenced I would be in the presence of a physically, above-average, attractive lesbian - need I remind you they kind of run scarce in our community and, not that I was in a desperate lack of dating situation, but I strongly believe that when an opportunity knocks at my door, it's foolishly masochistic not to answer.

There I was, sitting at a café, enjoying an intimate tête-à-tête with Sandra. As she took me down memory lane, recounting "The Way We Were" chronological history of our apparently short-lived intense romance, I still couldn't place her in my mind.  It was shocking considering, she's extremely pleasing to the eye -- you know the type who falls into the category of women you look twice at.

While I was proceeding with my internal inquisitional monologue, she was busy going on and on about how she madly fell in love with me, had never experienced such intense feelings for anybody before and how tragically, I broke her heart.

Not to sound insensitive and completely self-centered, but eventually I got tired of racking my brain to desperately try to resurrect a faint trace of her past participation in my life. Yet because, courtesy of my super sexy therapist, I am a woman who aspires to live in the "now", I opted to turn the page on the past and fully be in THE moment. That evidently translated in my sudden mature decision to explore the present possibility of revisiting the past - in plain English: get a date out of this -- hopefully fortuitous -- predicament.

Naturally, I asked her out! It was safe to say, all the odds for a "yes" were in my favor. I mean, she went out of her way to track me down; she motioned for the coffee date, and then wouldn't stop yapping about these fantastic moments we allegedly shared together. Clearly, I must have had done something unforgettably right! But guess what?

She declined!
Missy had omitted, in the course of her "I can't get over you" nostalgic tirade, to tell me that she was happily married now...to a man! What the f--k? Just like that I had been replaced? What was her charade about? I thought I was unforgettable - historically memorable?

Not so much! Clearly, I was rather memorably history - as in she forgave and totally forgot about me.

Meanwhile, she surely gave me something to remember this time!

Read more of Mona's Singled Out.

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