So, last week I gave something up (anger) to let something in (love). It was awesome. It is awesome still. I feel good, very good, about where I’m at. I’m full. I’m happy. Motivated. Making progress. Redefining my life, again. I’m enjoying my freedom and expansion. I like this space I’m in right now. However, I must admit I feel a bit, well, alone in that innermost circle of the space. Solo. On my own.
I’m still struggling a bit with the whole relationship status thing. I’ve had five years of singlehood. Five years to learn about myself. To date different kinds of people. To make new mistakes. To create better experiences. To figure out what the fuck I’m actually looking for in a partnership. Five years is a long time to be rollin’ in as a party of one these days. Sure, I’ve had some long-term relationships squeezed in there, and a few flings and whirlwind romances that end in radio silence for both parties. It’s fun, but often it’s exhausting. I love being able to make my own decisions, go when I want to go, stay when I want to stay, and yet despite evidence to the contrary,
being single is really not my thing.
The facts however, suggest this is not the energy I’m putting out there.
One of the groups I write for is hosting a “most eligible bachelor and bachelorette” event tonight, and while I’ve been to many singles events over the last few years, it will be the first time I’ve attended a showcase of that very status. My friends find this rather intriguing. So much so that two of them, on separate occasions, while learning about the event, asked me:
“Oh, why weren’t you nominated?”
Followed immediately with:
“Well there’s always next year.”
Yes. That’s right. Next year. Because apparently I’m still going to be single this time next year. Ummmmmm, how about no? How about HELL NO? Insert indignant foot stomp here. Except. . . If I’m being honest with myself, if I don’t knock a few bad habits off here soon,
I just might be.
I’ve hit a point in my dating life where I’m can identify a clear pattern in the type of men for whom I keep falling. It’s. . . not really a good one. Apparently, the way to win my heart is to possess some (completely random and unrelated) combination of any of the following (varying shades of shallowish) attributes:
- Abs, biceps, and other kinds of muscles that come in packs.
- Tattoos. Most especially tribal and placed on said rippling musculature. I just.cant.look.away. Or stop touching. Not apologizing for that.
- Confidence. Not arrogance. Smooth charismatic confidence. Yes, this also means a man who speaks in complete sentences. And can write. Well.
- A head that rises at least an inch above mine. Not even kind of sorry for this.
- A wicked sense of humor and full mastery of the art of sarcasm. If I have to explain it to you, we’re done here.
- An April birthday. Don’t ask. Please.
- Athletic prowess, abilities, and interest. Keep up or move out.
- A massive sense of adventure. Couch potatoes need not apply.
- People skills and compassion the size of Texas. Must.Love.
- The ability to pick me up (and not just at the bar)
- A Hey Girl smile. Yes, this includes your teeth.
- Eyes on my eyes. I see you, seeing me.
And, most significantly:
Total emotional unavailability or interest in having an actual relationship
No really. If you’re smoking hot, successful, sporty and intelligent but only call me when you feel like it, I might love you forever and think wistfully of receiving just one
minute hour of your attention. On the contrary, if you smother me with compliments, let me know right from the beginning how you feel about me, put off any vibes that feel less than what I’ve (admittedly stereotypically) categorized as manly, I’ll be bouncing like a superball baby, stat. Yes, I am shaking my own head at myself. Actually, I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. Yuck. That’s just. . . not okay. Unless of course I want to remain perpetually unattached or heartbroken, in which case I have really got this game dialed in tight. But I don’t. (Sigh.) Because this is what we do, we imperfectly perfect humans.
We want what we can’t have.
We like the adrenaline rush that comes with the chase. It’s exciting. Until it isn’t anymore. Until we learn better, and do better. Until the version of ourselves we’ve been waiting for shows up and represents. Until we see below the surface of our images, accept what we deserve and invite it home to stay. Perhaps it’s time I choose differently. Proceed more wisely. Stop turning in circles and looking for gold at the end of the rainbow.
Slow down, so I’m not so busy being busy that I leave no time for anything lasting.
Observe and then respond. Be vulnerable, but with discretion. Be open, so I can see and receive that which is truly prepared to be given. Say no to being treated as something other than a priority, something other than important, no longer allowing myself to be an afterthought. This round, maybe I can for once and for all get this love thing right. Maybe.
And if not, then I suppose there’s always next year…
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