The Waiting's The Hard Part

Cue: Tom Petty's tune, where it goes; The waiting's the hardest part. (Don't want any copyright problems here.) There, got that in your head right about now? Nothing to do with funk or soul brotherliness, no. That's another song, tune. Waiting. That's it. Waiting. The waiting, not the waking, the waiting, but might as well be about waking, (Or, the waking, I take my waking slow, learn by going where I have to go...Theodore Roethke) because we're up at 3.47 now and we're still waiting until I get this right, get it out, get it down, and get back to getting ready, waiting, for getting through my shaving and tai-chi chuan exercise, to get back to this, waiting, to finish, and get going to work.
The waiting is hard.
It seems like the bulk of my life has been spent waiting. Not being pleased or satisfied with the moment, where I am so much, and wanting something else, some where else to be. College. Out of College. In a job where I'm doing what I want and making enough not to have to worry so much. Doing the creative thing. Hiring friends of old from all over the place, commissioning them for projects I've had my mind on, and being able to do so in proper style. Not have to "work" for a living as it were. Not for others, not so much. I mean, not like I am now in a bind, in a complex labyrinthine superstructure.
I'm there, and she and she and she comes along, all along the way, and she's never mine. Never mine but for moments to spend together, which is fine, but fully dissatisfying, never able to connect, fully engage, any of these sweet beauties. Never. Never that. No. They have a boyfriend or girlfriend or are just way too flighty, or young, and I am too damn old. I have no game. I'm on their level, financially and socially and all...seems like. Seems like. I'm always waiting for the one or some one who'll spark it in me and then we can get together...but it's never to be. She's always otherwise engaged. Then, the kicker, waiting for the ones who are interested, to bugger off. I don't like them. Their package somehow reeks. It's rank. She's my age and hideous. She likes me but I really don't like her, not like that, the young the old, the one's who've got the body stylings I'm just not into. I don't like, not like that, not so much. I can talk to every one and usually do, earnestly, but for one thing or another I don't like the ones thus far, who've I suspected like me sexually. Not so far. Only my first and really truly only girl-friend. Damn, that beer commercial was right, You Never Forget Your First Girl. (That beer's okay.) But, to get back to the waiting...