The Mid Life Dating Files 2025

Describe your most ideal day from beginning to end.

My Most Ideal Day: A Memoir of Being Owned by a Cat

My most ideal day begins the same way every single day begins:

with Blaze aggressively patting me on the head like he’s trying to resuscitate me.

Not gently. Not lovingly. No.

This is a full-on “wake up, peasant” situation.

He talks. And talks. And TALKS.

He walks across my face. My chest. My soul.

He pats my head. My arm. My body. Over. And. Over.

Until I finally accept my fate and get up to serve him his wet food—because I am nothing more than staff.

As usual, I’m at his beck and call.

And listen… this cat does not ask. He demands.

Once Blaze is fed, praised, admired, told how handsome he is, and reassured that I still love him more than life itself, then—and only then—am I allowed to live my own life.

I make a cup of coffee ☕

Open my email inbox (which contains approximately 1,000,000 emails)

Write a few blog posts

Work on videos and content for several platforms for our family business

Basically pretend I’m a productive, functioning adult.

Then I make my bed and ensure the house looks absolutely perfect because it’s currently on the market. Nothing like living in a constant state of “someone might walk in at any moment” to keep you humble.

I do some yoga stretches—nothing extreme, just enough to convince myself I’m flexible and spiritually aligned.

Laundry gets done.

The litter box gets cleaned.

Because if I don’t…

Blaze will absolutely stand in the hallway hollering,

“Mom… the shitter’s full!”

like Cousin Eddie from Christmas Vacation.

And yes.

That is exactly the energy he brings.

Now let’s talk about the kitchen.

The moment I step foot in there—ANY time of day—Blaze immediately assumes it’s time to eat.

Not check the clock.

Not wait patiently.

No.

Kitchen = food.

Always.

He needs his snacks.

He needs confirmation that snacks exist.

He needs reassurance that snacks will continue to exist.

By afternoon, I might meet my parents for lunch.

If not, you’ll find me exactly where I belong—in the kitchen.

Music blasting. 🎶

Wine bottle opened. 🍷

Wine glass already in hand.

Cooking something amazing because this is where I truly shine.

Blaze, of course, is supervising.

Trying to drink my wine.

Trying to taste-test everything.

Standing directly where I need to be at all times.

And here’s the thing—

I am convinced Blaze has an internal time clock.

Because when 5:00 PM hits, he KNOWS.

He doesn’t check a watch.

He doesn’t need a reminder.

He simply appears.

Staring.

Yelling.

Letting me know it’s time for dinner and that I am once again at his beck and call.

At this point, I’m not sure if I’m feeding him…

or if he’s just eating dinner with me.

After dinner, I clean up, refill my wine glass (priorities), and head to the couch to watch Netflix. At some point, I migrate to my big two-person chair—because I am a single woman who believes in excess seating.

And that’s where it ends.

Me, half asleep.

Wine glass still in hand.

Blaze wrapped around my neck like a fuzzy, judgmental cat stole.

And honestly?

That’s the dream.

That’s the life.

That’s my most ideal day—from beginning to end. 😌🐈‍⬛🍷

A Day in the Life of Blaze (Human Trained, Mostly)

Hello.

My name is Blaze.

I wake up early every morning because responsibility matters.

My human, however, does not.

So I begin my duties.

First, I gently pat her head.

Then I pat it again.

Then I talk.

Then I walk across her face.

She ignores me—classic mistake.

I escalate.

I walk on her chest.

Her arm.

Her neck.

I continue talking. Louder now.

Eventually, she wakes up and pretends this wasn’t my plan all along.

She feeds me wet food.

Finally.

As she should.

I eat. I judge. I accept her apology for the delay.

Once I am fed, I allow her to make coffee and stare at her phone like it’s a portal to another dimension. She checks her emails. There are many. I do not care. None of them are for me.

She does work. Writes. Types. Films things.

I supervise from nearby, occasionally yelling to remind her I exist.

Then she cleans the house.

This is important because strangers might come in, and I need them to understand I live in luxury.

She does yoga.

I watch.

I do not participate because I am already flexible and perfect.

She cleans my litter box.

Good.

If she forgets, I will scream “THE SHITTER’S FULL” from the hallway until morale improves.

Now, let us discuss the kitchen.

Any time my human enters the kitchen, it is time to eat.

This is not an opinion.

This is science.

Snacks should happen immediately.

If they do not, I remind her by staring directly into her soul.

Later in the day, something magical happens.

At exactly 5:00 PM, my internal clock activates.

I do not need a watch.

I am the watch.

I appear silently behind her and begin yelling.

This means it is dinner time.

For me.

She tries to claim she is “still cooking.”

Unacceptable.

Sometimes she feeds me.

Sometimes she claims I’m “just eating dinner with her.”

Either way, I win.

While she cooks, I supervise closely.

I attempt to drink her wine.

I sniff everything.

I stand precisely where she needs to be.

After dinner, she sits down to watch Netflix.

I allow this.

She moves to the big two-person chair—clearly purchased with me in mind. I climb onto her neck and wrap myself around her like a fashionable scarf.

She falls asleep.

I stay alert.

Because if she wakes up and goes to the kitchen again,

it will be time to eat.

This is my day.

I run a tight ship.

She is doing her best.🐾🐈‍⬛😂👍🏻