It's What I Meant

Yesterday’s blog was kind of a downer. I apologize, but only partially. I needed to say what I said. The great British composer Ralph Vaughan Williams once commented about his Fourth Symphony: “I don’t know if I like it, but it’s what I meant.”
I have so much to live for, and I know it. I have all of you, I have my family here, my grandson, my patient and ever-supportive wife. I have my writing, and I make pretty good use of my time, enjoying every minute I spend punching keys on the keyboard or scratching ink onto sheets of paper. I hunger to do it. I even enjoy the breaks I take from the writing – any excuse will do, ask almost any writer – to play solitaire or watch a syndicated rerun of House, NCIS, the Mentalist, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Thanks to Erik and Annemieke, I have a decent sound system now, and have vowed to go through my CDs A-Z. I also have discovered the visual delights of BluRay, even with these old eyes of mine.
But the anger is there, under the surface, as I reported yesterday. No number of Silents on Buffy or symphonies by Shostakovich can make it go away. It’s under control, but it is in no way abated. And I thought about it and made a startling discovery: I’m lonely. I miss my job.
It’s not the job I miss, really. I hated the job, the organization, the attitudes. My current job is much more satisfying. But I loved the people. Mostly, I loved the gals. I miss them. I miss the banter, the joking, the self-depreciating humor, the candor, the sharing. I miss being around a delightful, insightful and attractive group of women.
In a time for confessing, I confess that. All apologies to the guys, but women are much more interesting to be around than men, and more fun to look at in the bargain.