A friend recently confessed an interesting secret: she's dating a man with a girlfriend. In other words, she's the "other woman," relegated to late-night secret rendezvous back at her apartment while the girlfriend plays front and centre and helps the jerk entertain at joint parties.
The other day, speed walking to an appointment to get my hair cut, I realized that I was becoming anxious over my (completely lovely) hairdresser's inevitable question: So what's going on with your love life? (The classic Bridget Jones' question.) The answer, at the moment, is zilch. Nada. Nothing.