Here’s the thing: I’ve been single for a very long fucking time.
Before I began my POF shenanigans many many first dates ago, I was COMPLETELY girl monk for 7+ years which left me so Arctic tundra inside I wondered if I’d ever recover.
But. Then. I went online and I was seen. It was like emerging from the wings of my own dark theatre of a life into the spotlight and realizing there was a packed house of men waiting. Allll kinds of men. And I thought I was absolutely ready because girl meets bike, remembers all and lives HEA #hello I’d been with my ex for 18 years; I knew from long term relationship and I’d been fanfuckingtastic at it. How hard could it be?
Insert laugh track, set past hearty but a hair before hysterical. Just. One. Hair. Cue montage of more than 80 meet and greets interspersed with a woman in an adorable first date outfit writing her blog/ drinking red wine/ writing/ drinking/ crying/ drinking/ writing/ hugging large boned and resigned cat to breast. Much much more sobbing. And drinking. Close up on wrinkled, well worn garb and fade to black hole…
Note: This is where I direct you to the beginning of Lucy and say: dating and the madness that lays thereof are in the details. Read on, dependent on how you feel about your FB relationship status.
Here’s the thing: I was a smug married for even longer than I’ve been a singleton. I know. WHAT.
In the midst, my relationship concerns were based on the shit that comes past the honeymoon phase…like waaayyyy. Little annoyances like the inability to multitask - you HONESTLY can’t put that in the garbage on your way to the front door, dude? Like for fucking real?? - to mind bogglers like complaining he wasn’t getting enough sex WHILE we were HAVING SEX. Money. Incompatible fight stances. Laziness and complacency. Those fuckers sneak into the best of coupled up lives and you start taking for granted someone whose value should never be unremembered. Those are the minute and mordant realities of a life lived in tandem.
But. There was also all the “I’m with him, obvs” benefits like the short hand, wordless communication and daily intimacy of having someone who knows you from the guts out listen as you ramble, vent, mutter, sing – any thing and everything. Someone to be LMAO IRL x2. Your man in the dark, physically and metaphorically, in fucking fun and overweening irritation. Just yours.
And here’s the final thing: I’ve been alone for so long now that my marriage muscle memory is dead AF. I can list but I can’t feel. I am gone girl.
I now observe couples making eyes and holding hands as if I’m an alien. Basically, it’s like I’m a physical vehicle in which every romantic scenario is viewed from the wrong end of the telescope. I am “one of these things that is not like the others…one of these things just does not belong.” A fucking Martian on Sesame Street. Go, me.
In more worldly terms, I’ve been alone for so long this kind of love has become the 1% of my reality. How fucking wtf is that?
All these years of mostly unrequited dating, trying to recapture or recreate a gestalt I no longer have any ability to reconstruct emotionally…blurgh. The real question then is did dating do this to me or did I do this to dating? Am I the fucking chicken or the gd egg?
I once referred to my blogging being as relevant as “the weather hindering the Hindenburg” that was my POF experience. However, this bone deep inability to comprehend “not dying alone”? I’m thinking it could be the spark that ignited the hydrogen that took that mo fo down, do you know what I mean? Then, no matter the stage of fowl, I’ll be done like dinner.
Though I’ve felt like this for years, I haven’t seen it as a major issue…until now. Now it’s THE issue. Why? Because too long. Waaayyy. It’s deeply entrenched in my psyche and my soul and something’s gotta give, girlies.
Because what if I can’t imagine myself a citizen on Planet Partnered Up like…EVER even as I continue to go on interviews with possible candidates to move there with me? Can these two states – physically online/ emotionally unplugged – continue to co-exist? Or am I going to catch-22 myself into Miss Havisham territory? It’s contemplating this kind of rhetorical question that’s the couple's equivalent of shopping at Ikea. I will implode as well but internally, not at the intersection of the Billy bookcases and the ball room #moreprivateatleast
Usually I'm cognizant of the end of a post when I begin writing it but here I am and I still don’t know what to tell you in conclusion except I have the dubious accomplishment of having repelled many men for a very fucking long time. I am truly Teflon. From outer space.
Yet. I’m still in the station waiting for my train to stop. But. I don’t know if I have the wherewithal anymore to recognize it nor the heart to walk through that door if I did, that’s all. What if there’s just not enough track to get from Planet Me to Planet Us? What if there is no my train?
Bridget Jones 2.0, up to the tits with yet more futile queries, pretty much over and most probably out #sigh
Does anyone else out there wonder this same kind of shit? Anyone? Anyone? I could use a compatriot or to hear from another lonely leaf on the other side of the same fucking tree. Just saying.