So it's finally, officially, summer. Ahhhhhh.
And every day now, the amount of daylight will slowly diminish until the darkest deadness of winter. It's all downhill, as soon as it starts--spoken like the SAD poster girl that I am. In that spirit, or lack of, the folly of this undertaking overtakes me. The brother-in-law is right. 100 dates in 93 days is ridiculous. It's absurd. It's a full-time job. I already have one of those. I don't like it a whole lot.
But that doesn't mean I won't try. I just want to overdeliver, which presupposes underpromising, underestimating, low-balling it. How about twelve dates? That's reasonable. Approximately one a week. But even twelve requires that I get my butt on one of those online dating sites. Write a light but pithy profile. Find some pictures of myself that current and cute, but not showing too much cleavage, according to the sister's advice. And I'm already 24 hours into the summer. Doh.
I think the pics from Guat are perfect - breezy yet gorgeous - oh and Jai and I want to read the profile. Can't wait to start hearing about all your dates and impressions. and hey, if it doesn't add up to a book deal - let's do that trip cross country with the dogs - who won't want to read about two chicks, two dogs and an RV?
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