Blink

All this time, I’ve thought I’ve been unlucky in love.

But the other night, as A and I got to chatting about boys I began to doubt this. Over rum (hers) and tea (mine) it was one particular conversation that got me thinking.

A: I’ve been single for a year and a half.

Me: Dude, I’ve been single for coming onto six years now.

A: No, but you dated Him.

Me: Yea, but he wasn’t my boyfriend.

A: But you dated him. I haven’t even met someone I’d be interested in dating in a year and a half.

And somehow in that one sentence she nailed the perpetual single girl’s main obstacle. (Of which I declare myself Supreme Leader; don’t take it away from me. It’s the only thing I’ve got.)

It’s not that there is something fundamentally wrong with us. It’s not that we have more issues than women who date more often or who have had more relationships than us.

Rather, the perpetual single girl’s problem is that we don’t date just to date. Let me explain. Unlike the average dater, we don’t go on dates to find a person we would like to date. No sirree. We first want to find the big love and only then do we want to date him.

For me to even consider going on a date, I need to feel that intense spark; an immediate body/soul/mind connection; the holy trinity of attraction. This chemistry of which I speak is not based on level of cuteness or similar interests or common values. The only way I can describe it is like this: Within a blink; I just know. This guy is special.

The Blink doesn’t happen very often. In my life–in all my life–the number of times that I have felt that level of intensity can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Four to be exact. The fact that I’ve only had two long-term relationships is actually promising. Fifty percent of the time The Blink is spot on.

All the other men; the crushes, the distractions, the mistakes? I didn’t feel The Blink. But I did feel The Boredom, The Loneliness and The Pressure. I felt all those things directly after the latest rejection.

And I very nearly decided to go against my basic nature and throw myself into dating–anyone; whoever asked; whoever showed a little bit of interest. For a couple of weeks there, I flirted with boys I knew I would never want; not even in a million blinks.

Over rum and tea with A, it occurred to me that I am not at all unlucky when it comes to love. Because the kind of love; the kind of relationship; the kind of date that I’m looking for is just not common.

I’m looking for the big type of love; the big relationship; the big date. The type of love that you blink and it just is. I’m looking for immediacy; for no choice but to love; for its hard but I can’t not love. I don’t want to but I have to love.

I’m not sure I’m even looking for it anymore. I don’t think that this big love I want is something you search for; in a bar with your patented single girl’s scan. Rather, it almost always just appears. A big date that turns into a big relationship that turns into a big love all at the same time.

The only thing I have to do (and you and you) is have my eye’s open; ready to blink.

Twenty dates

After the first date, I sent an email to my four closest friends. The subject read, “Would it be too much if I said I met my soul mate?”

On the sixth date, I was certain I had. It was this feeling in my gut that translated into happiness and peace and calmness. People I hardly knew would look at me and laugh, “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” I was radiating complete confidence, self acceptance and joy.

On the tenth date, I realized that my soul mate was not actually perfect, I began to withdraw out of fear.

On the twelfth date, I realized that my soul mate, while far from perfect, was also not looking for the same thing I was. “I just want to be left alone.” he had said. I–single for the majority of my life–understood that sentiment; I didn’t even take it personally. “OK” I countered. “I can leave you alone.” He–in committed, long term relationships for most of his life–did not know what he wanted. “No, don’t leave me alone” he had replied.

On the seventeenth date, I could feel my soul mate chickening out. He had got caught up in something far more complex than he was ready for; he couldn’t handle it.

On the eighteenth date, I was so scared that the end was near that I withdrew even more. I pushed him further away. Then, I pulled him closer. Then, I pushed him away again. He employed the exact same strategy.

On the twentieth date, we both gave up.  He made a choice and I did not even attempt to fight for what I wanted. All because of fear, insecurity, bitterness and anger of issues that had nothing to do with him. I suspect he unfairly judged me and our brief affair in the same way that I did.

Two months later, I still believe that I met my soul mate. But sometimes, even when soul mates do meet, it doesn’t mean that they will–or should–be together.

He wasn’t the one. But he was a kindred spirit. He was a soul mate. And for this reason alone, I still miss him.

Fuck.

Reachable

A couple of months ago, I was hopping across the internet when I landed on a website. This website, which I can no longer find, had the body measurements of most celebrities. According to this ever trusting source, Jennifer Aniston and I share the exact same weight, height and breast size.

Only difference is that my body looks nothing like hers.

For one, I look terrible in shorts. For two, my legs are nowhere killer status. I have great hair though.

But, as always, this got me thinking of potential. I could–if I tried–have one of the most sought after bodies on the planet. I imagine that Jennifer has been on a regimented diet and workout schedule for over a decade. I hear the words regimented, diet and workout schedule and I begin to wheeze and pant as if I have already run a marathon. The point is that if I wanted to, I could have her body. This is not some absurd, lofty dream. Its an actual possibility. Same height, weight and breast size? Check. Same curves? Check.  Similar Greek genes? Check.

It could happen.

Going after an A-list body is not my goal though.  But, the idea that with consistently hard work what appears to be unreachable can be achieved is hard to un-realize. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a published story teller.  And for as long as I can remember that seemed impossible; an absurd naive dream of a girl. See,  life gets in the way. You learn that its not easy; that there are millions of writers. You don’t stand out. Then, life actually gets in the way.  Bills need to be paid. Success is measured by the amount of money you can flaunt; the amount of names you can drop; the number of zeros at the end of a paycheck. So, even though you’re a writer, you write other people’s ideas. The ones that pay.

It’s depressing.

So, when it occurred to me that–with some effort–I could actually have Jennifer Aniston’s body; then it occurred to me that I could–with some effort–actually be a published novelist.

And that?

That’s fucking exciting.

What do you think you could do or be if you put in the effort that is required?

Running In Heels

When I was younger, disappointment in love would undoubtedly be followed by some type of physical makeover.

I would cut my hair or change its colour. Piercings or tattoos would be considered.  New clothes would be bought. Gym memberships would be signed. It was a good strategy. Changing the outside, in whatever way, can be good to heal the inside.

This last doomed romance, while beautiful and then painful did not last long enough to make a very deep cut. A makeover, I rationalized, the morning after was not going to achieve anything. Besides, I am perfectly happy with the way I look. After no contemplation at all,  I knew  that this time, this disappointment had to followed by something that was going to make me happy. 

And, well, writing makes me happy. 

Writing stuff that people read? Even happier. 

Through a new friend I discovered Running In Heels.; a Pan-European cultural online magazine for women. I quickly sent off an email to the editor-in-chief admitting that I do not wear heels because oh haven’t you heard? Flats are the new stilettos. But regardless of that, I’d still love to contribute.

Fast forward, 35 days later and here we are. 

My first two articles are up. I even have my very, own ‘author‘ page. Yip! There is writing out there in the world for people to read with my ACTUAL name on it. 

Cool, right?

If you’re so inclined, you can click on the links below to read my first articles. 

Picking Up Speed: Silversun Pickups

Ten Books About Love That We Love 

Undefined

At the very beginning, in that undefined time of first kisses and first sleep overs, he appears to have eyes only for you. Yet, at that same undefined time it also appears (at least to you) that every pair of female eyes are on him.

You can’t really blame them. (You’re a woman. You have eyes. And they’re only on him too.)

Flecks of gray intersperse between his dirty, dirty blond hair.  The late afternoon rays falls on each one of them separately and the light dances off each one of them and for a moment you wonder if the color of a diamond shines as brightly as those flecks of gray. His usually dull blue eyes have brilliantly lit up and now easily match the colour of the tips of the crests of waves; the kind of sea that you’ve only ever seen in photos. He squints in the sun and the sun seemingly bored with his hair falls into his eyes and you notice yellow specks of gold dust that look like story book stars that have lost their way in the dark and found themselves in the irises of a mere mortal man.  His firm body is accentuated by the wet suit he is wearing. There are lines; lines that you have run your hands across in darkness. There are hard muscles in his arms that jut out as he walks and you blush because you have seen those exact muscles– rigid–keeping your own arms down. And then you smile–your secret smile– because you know a truth that he doesn’t know yet.  Desire can never be restrained. Even by the strongest of men. Adding fuel to this fire, he is wet. Drops of water drip. Some fast. Others slow. Both creating puddles of connect the dot puzzles on the scorching cement beneath his feet.  Even his eyelashes are wet. His ears.  The tip of his nose. His lips.

His lips are cold.

It is only then that it occurs to you that the only reason you know his lips are cold is because they are on yours. While your eyes have been darting back and forth from him to those roaming female eyes on him, his eyes have never left your face. It is then that you realize that this man has chosen you. You! And that the most exciting realization of all is that you chose him too.

(But could those women seriously stop checking him out? Especially that one, the one with the long legs.)

As he walks away from you and happily shouts: “Please don’t go. Stay. Wait for me” you shrug your shoulders and yell right back, “We’ll see. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.” You want to keep him guessing because certainty, you have been told, will turn him from the man you hope he is to the type of man you have always known. So you withhold, you appear less eager than you feel and you say “No” when every fiber of your being is screaming yes. You wonder how it is possible that the truest, purest, most instinctual feeling you have right at this moment could be the feeling that will inevitably drive him away?

Later as you catch sight of his sail, his legs balancing his board, as you watch him manouvre his way out of the safety of the bay and toward what appears to you to be the deepest, darkest, most turbulent end of the ocean you feel the stirrings of a knot in your stomach.

How long does it stay like this? At this undefined time where you are so taken by a man that you genuinely believe that every single pair of female eyes are on him? How long does this last? This time where he appears to have eyes only for you? How long does it last? This effortless time where you want to write bad poetry about the colour of his hair or an ode on his one chipped tooth? How long does this feeling last?

So you try to come up of ways to collect it, keep it in a jar and open it–years from now–to remind yourself that that one summer, that summer of 2009,  you chose a man.

And, while you weren’t looking,  he chose you too.