After close to seven months of singleness, after six years of very un-singleness, I have determined one thing about dating.
I don’t like it.
After spending most of my twenties trying to stress the importance of having a relationship with my parents, clinging to someone’s arm after one too many drinks, and really really wanting him (whoever he was) to buy me flowers for no reason, I quit.
I buy my own flowers now.
I know that sounds cynical. I don’t intend it to.
It’s just that after the emotional energy spent meeting someone, getting beyond the friend phase, deciding I like them, dating them, really dating them, wondering if I should be dating them – paired with other rites of passage in relationships I still quite don’t understand, I’m fucking exhausted.
Though I’m prone to the occasional crush or flirtation, (I’m only human), modern day dating perplexes me. I’m just not good at it. The reasons vary – from really not being to tell if someone’s flirting with me, to being completely wrong about whether they are.
Plus…I don’t like video games. I won’t watch NFL on Sundays. I hate polo shirts. When a guy mentions that he drinks Bud Light, takes way too long to answer a text, or something else that suggests he will either
a) eventually settle into complacency, thus never going to Thailand with me
b) eventually wig out, act like a jerk, and go away to “figure things out”, then go to Thailand without me
….my eyes glaze over.
But to be fair, this goes both ways.
I take too long to answer texts, and I get snobby about drinking Bud Light. I judge polo shirts. Besides the Phillies, I shut out sports. Everything needs to be special or unique, making me insatiable, and easily disappointed.
I’m too short – literally and physically. I will absolutely hold it against a guy if he doesn’t like playing Scrabble. And finally, on more than one occasion, my creative restlessness and romantic angst results into a wine-fueled night of painting, cooking, or writing, where I need anything else to go away.
And I’m idealistic. And loud. And I’m mostly attracted to guys who will either eventually wig out, act like a jerk, or disappear to “figure things out”…then go to Thailand without me.
Mr. Brunson, my high school English teacher, would have a word for this.
Jilted.
If I were a character in a book, he’d explain to his students that since I had been jilted/ done jilting, I had ostracized myself ala Hester Prynne. Because of this, he’d say, I have an ongoing inner conflict they need to analyze in an essay to fully comprehend it.
Using that week’s vocabulary list, of course.
In this fantasy, Elizabeth Gilbert would chime in that our plot lines are too similar, almost comically. She’d predict that I’ll probably end up in an ashram in India, scrubbing floors to find purpose. Mary Oliver would show up and cry, then write a beautiful poem about it. Damien Rice would start singing a song he wrote based on that poem.
(You’re starting to see why I’m so exhausting/ed now, I bet.)
Though I can’t exactly argue with any of their fake opinions, I will say this. I like being alone because I don’t need someone. Ala Mimi-Rose Howard from Girls, I don’t need you, fictional 30 year old version of Luke Danes, I want you.
That’s so much better, right? To have a life that’s so fulfilling, rich and crammed with wonderful people, that you don’t need someone else to complete it?
I never really understood that when I was younger.
It was always about getting to the next place — emotionally, geographically, professionally. Life was always about moving forward, and not enjoying, or being grateful for where I was.
Everything had to be perfect, all the time, or it just wasn’t right.
I really like where I am now. I like figuring things out, and risking that they might not. When I lose hope in that, I like how those feelings result in a wine-fueled night of painting, cooking, or writing.
Where I need anything else to go away.