I am a single woman, and as such, I should have somewhat of a nightlife. I should know what hot restaurants just opened, what bars are fun and have eligible 30 and 40-somethings, and I should spend quality time at the bar at the W.

Alas. It is not me, and truth be told, has not been me since I carried my college crazies into my early 20’s life in Austin and indulged them until they burned out of their own volition. The typical M.O. for divorced people is to either a) move into a high rise downtown and act like they are 20 again (or date people of said age) or b) dress up, go out as often as possible and troll for potential dates. Instead, I got divorced and nested like Big Bird on Sesame Street, pouring my entire heart, time and energy into my little flock. Looking back, I can see my circuit of driving to and from Casis Elementary, running at the lake, going to the gym (a quiet one, not Lifetime or Pure Austin where people actually meet people), working from home and going to Randall’s on Exposition (usually wearing stale running clothes) was probably not the most fruitful path for a single woman.

I probably could have been spending more time at Pure Austin. I could have gone to Whole Foods all the time, regardless of the fact that it would eventually render me broke, and my kids would revolt (or starve) at the lack of processed, packaged food. I could have made more of a point to pursue friendships with divorcees, so I had a nimble pack to stalk prey. I could have gone out to more live music (since I actually do love that). I could have made more of a point to stay up past ten, even though I am a morning person. I could have taken some informal classes at UT. I could have joined CrossFit. I could have mustered up the chutzpah and gotten a babysitter and actually gone to the parties, galas and fundraisers I politely get invited to (I do, however, have a doctor's note exempting me from galas. I’m highly allergic). I could have said yes more often to the well-intentioned people who tried to set me up, instead of shutting them down as quickly as a metal door under siege between Jedis and Stormtroopers on Death Star. (Ah, if only Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory lived nearby. He would love me, and it would be totally mutual.)

In semi-recent history, I dated someone who referred to himself in the third person. Then I dated an adorable man-child. He was cute, so fun and always had a game on. But every bartender knew him by name (think Norm, in Cheers), and if it were my kid’s recital vs. Jazz Fest (SxSW, Kentucky Derby, ACL, Mardi Gras, Superbowl, Final Four, Burning Man, a ski trip, Mexico trip, gotta work late or any excuse to go to Vegas), I know it would ultimately be “your-kid-who?” We did not match. I decided posthaste that men without children, faith or dogs and men who start most sentences with “meanabuddyamine” are not for me.

But one friend of mine, a very pushy one too I might add, asked me to meet this one guy. I eye-rolled compliance, stating for the record that I do not date NED’s (men who are Not-Even-Divorced). She said, “Of course you can’t date him yet. He’s not single. But you could try being his friend. He will likely be single for a-bout five minutes after his divorce is final. He’s that special.”

Ugh. Whatever. I’ll babysit another grieving, whining person who wants to trash his ex and complain about how hard it is to have kids All. Weekend. Long. Fine…one dinner (and he’s buying).

At that dinner, I did not once roll my eyes. And he did not trash his ex. He spoke of his children with joy, love and reverence—just the way I speak of mine—and he has them full time, not just alternating weekends. He is close with his whole family, the way I am with mine. He loves God. And dogs. I left quite happy and honored to be his friend. Our friendship continued over months. I ended things with man-child. His divorce finalized. We planned a road trip together— me, him and our collective six children—and our destination included his entire family of origin. The fact that I did not immediately have a nervous breakdown and head for Alaska (to live, not vacation) spoke volumes. I really wanted to go (and so did my kids!). He bought a Suburban with two rows of bench seats, two built-in DVD players and six headsets so we could all go together. I swooned. That may be, quite possibly, the most romantic thing to occur in my lifetime. I fell in love with him as he baited my kids’ hooks with shrimp on a pier.

My nightlife is undergoing a revival. The other night I ate a grilled venison burger (Deer meat? Bambi? Me? Are you freaking kidding me? It was delicious. Shot by his son.) and massaged his kids’ feet while we watched a terrible movie about a dog who could drive a car. It was total bliss.

It just goes to show what can happen when your nightlife is actually infused with real life. It just may, after nine years, be my total undoing.