As I recall it now, the night seemed never-ending as if the world itself were to begin–brand new–on this night. I guess that’s what beginnings really are; fresh starts. A chance for change.  Protecting my heart has never been the way I do beginnings. Maybe, I should this time? I thought.

And I tried, I really did.

The hour hand  had steadily made its way towards 3 a.m and we had finally found an abandoned table.

We huddled together; a group of us and he managed to squeeze in next to me. I inched to the right–to make more space for him–he inched closer. I moved a little more, he came in closer.

‘We can do this all night.’ he said and laughed. I stayed put. He was now potential and all my defenses were up but if I moved any more I would very likely fall off the couch. I was struggling with a conflict;  heartache and new heartbeats. To err on the side of caution,  I began to pay a little more attention to him. I listened carefully to his answers trying to decide if he would be the one that would call and then call again and then call again until it didn’t even matter if he was calling because I would know that he would. Or if he would be the one–like all the others–that would call, encourage me to fall and then yank the earth under my feet.

But what can you tell of a person’s character and intentions when you’re both too busy trying to come up with the best Cartman lines?

When he excused himself to take a phone call I had a perfect chance. ‘It must be a girl’ I thought, ‘Who calls after 3 a.m?’  He returned and I turned my back to him. He immediately noticed. ‘Hey, are you alright?’ The banter continued. I’m only human. Then, I remembered that his four-year old relationship had ended four months ago so I turned my back to him again. I’ve been the rebound. It sucks. But he wouldn’t give up; my wavering attention–the hot/cold vibes I was unwittingly emitting–seemed to spark his interest even more.

But these signs, the phone call, the recently single, were warnings. And struggling with heartache and new heartbeats I made the decision that the night should end before I opened my heart–not to him–but to hope once again. I informed A and she agreed.  He convinced us to stay a while longer. Ten minutes later, we tried to leave again. This time he put up a fight. Him and A argued as you do when you’re drunk. I–stone cold sober–attempted to defuse the situation. But with no luck.

A night of distraction turned into potential and then that potential, with only my own fears in my way, suddenly ended almost as unexpectedly as it had begun.

And I–sensitive I–who had spent much of the night wrestling with giving in to hope thought that I was now without any.

Poof! Gone!

The next three weeks passed in an anxious, cynical jaded furor. Mostly because no matter the amount of hours I have spent crying into pillows, my damn heart seems to be made of indestructible hope. I always believe–mind you without any evidence–that the next one will be different. That (to paraphrase Taylor for symmetry purposes) I’m going to fucking find someone someday who might actually treat me well. (I imagine she doesn’t swear).

Perhaps my big love story is around the corner.  Through the mutual friend grapevine, as of today I am in possession of his telephone number–the one he requested to be given to me. Maybe, this isn’t my big love story. Who honestly knows?

But even though, I  can still see and feel the heartache of the summer in full HD quality and smashing surround sound,  the power of the new, trembling heartbeats is far too tempting.

Maybe, this one will be different. Maybe, password protecting my heart is the smarter choice; just in case he isn’t. (Most likely, he isn’t.)

But don’t I owe it to myself to find out?

Some time ago–could be five weeks now–I saw a man from across a room.  He had all the physical characteristics that make my heart jump to my throat. Perfect distraction material; my stupid heart still pines pathetically for another. While the notion of unrequited affection is dramatically (and painfully) romantic moving on is actually the sole alternative.

He had a disarming smile; intelligent, soft eyes and most importantly (to fulfill my masochistic needs) he looked right through me. Of course, I was intrigued. Two days later, we were introduced by a mutual friend. Upon closer inspection, he had additional positive traits. Age appropriate, an Antipodean mother but raised in Greece. Fluent English. Up close, the smile was even sexier because now it was directed at me. Cue heart leaping acrobatics.

A week after that, we ran into each other at The Bar II (I’m broadening my horizons, people.) To my surprise, he spent much of the night hitting on me. (I spent much of the night searching for Ashton Kutcher.)  The rules as issued by The Universe are clear. The guy you’re not attracted to? He will hit on you. The one you’re drawn to? He will ignore you, or break up with you or fall in love with your best friend.

The Universe must have been temporarily down due to maintenance because directly before he spilled his drink on me and right after I found out his favourite band is The Killers , he asked for my number.

But in a way that no self-respecting woman can give without appearing desperate. Then again, I am certain that if I was more charming–more hero in heroine–I would have serendipitously  found a magic marker and scrawled it on his arm while he looked on with an intoxicated grin. But to paraphrase Taylor Swift; Dudes, this ain’t  Hollywood.

Him: I love this song!

Me: Never heard it!

Him: *SHOCK*

Me: What?

Him: Oh, this isn’t going to work out. I’m walking away.

Me: OK.

Him: *SMILE* [Standing surprisingly still]

Me: I thought you were walking away.

Him: How can you not know this song? When was the last time you went out?

Me: It’s been awhile.

Him: Well then you should give me your number so I can take you out.

Me: *NERVOUS GIGGLE*

Definitely not Hollywood.

But, the night continued. He appeared unfazed by my (lets call it) coyness. He vied for my attention; coming to my side when he could; touching me on the wrist, on the arm, around the waist at appropriate times. When he spilled his fifth vodka/lime across my lace dress–bought three months ago for another man in mind–he apologized and  I simply gestured nonchalantly ‘Don’t even worry about it.’

Distractions are all well and good while you’re pining another; but every so often  the line between distraction and potential appears paper-thin. The slightest shift in wind and suddenly you’re on the other side doubled over screaming into a mascara smeared pillow ‘Why can’t I be loved?’

I felt the wind change direction directly after he spilled his drink on me and right before he took the executive decision that I–somehow– now owed him a kiss.

He patted me down with his bare hand as if skin alone can absorb moistness. My hand traveled down my own body to vodka on lace. A flash forward memory; as of yet un-spilled tears jolted me back into reality. This is what I do. I am smitten far too easily by smiles and distractions and these games.  But,  I want too much to let simplicity win me over. I’m far too ready for more to be swayed by a one night interest; a moment. I open my heart far too early.

I attempted to move away from him. He held onto me; forcing me with his gaze to look at our entwined hands.

I was smitten, won over, swayed. He had just transferred from distraction to potential.

And I–stupid I–completely forgot to password protect my heart.

To be continued…

On Saturday, I found myself justifying my non-promiscuity.

The glazed but surprised eyes looked back at me as if I had just declared that I have gills and swim around in circles all day.

‘What do you mean you have never had a one night stand!?’

‘I mean I’ve never had a one night stand. Which part of that sentence didn’t you understand?’

‘But why? Do you think its slutty for people to follow their natural instincts?’

‘I don’t really care what other people do. But its not something I can do. I wish I could; it sounds like fun. But I can’t.’

I imagine that in his world, I am an alien–an alien with gills. We live in the same neighbourhood of the same city of the same country. We have mutual friends. But his is a life of rich debauchery; money, hot clubs, fast cars,  drugs and women spin on the axis of his world. My life is a stark contrast. A spinning vortex in slow motion. I write, I drink tea at my local bar while making puns with a close circle of friends. Oh! And everyone now and again I go on the odd date and have whirlwind affairs that end badly.

‘How do you expect to get into a relationship if you don’t open yourself to one night stands?’ he asked.

I burst out laughing.

‘You’re joking right?’

‘The only way for a relationship to begin is to meet, sleep together and then see if you like each other.’

‘You’re joking right?’

Now, it was my turn to look at him as if he was a visitor on my planet. He didn’t appear to see the twisted logic of his argument.

‘How about you meet, go out on a couple of dates to see if you like each other and then sleep together?’

‘You’re a prude. And single.’

I wasn’t offended. I enjoy hearing explanations of the possible reasons I am single; the crazier the explanation; the saner I feel.

‘Maybe.’ I offered.

‘Wanna do it in my car?’

‘No.’

***

So, internet, one night stands. Yay or nay?

…I interview a young and fabulous Greek designer.

…I enlighten the non-blog reading masses on the joys of RSS.

…I gush about PostSecret

and finally, I sneak in a typical Hope Dies Last kind of post. It’s all about horoscopes and boys and life and love and destiny and stuff. Consider that my post for today!

Please, if you could be so kind,  check them out. Last month my articles made it to the most read list. And I am pretty certain I have all of you to thank for that. So thank you. Really.

Now, go!

If we were to ever meet; if we were to ever go out lunching or drinking or even just hanging; if I begin to  quote Southpark, or wax poetic about how much I  like Snoop Dog, Warren G and all good 90s rap; if I start talking about game consoles or Leisure Suit Larry or Asteroids I want you to carefully look around the table.

There is a man at this table. And chances are his smile doth give me the butterflies.

And so my question for today is:

What kinds of things do you suddenly remember that you ‘adore’ when in close proximity to a man you want to impress?

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.

Last night, I flitted like a social butterfly around The Bar. A fake smile on my face; allowing a faux excitement to dance in my eyes.

I’ve met many men over the last two months. Probably, more than the entire five years that I’ve been single. Yesterday, they all seemed to descend on my local; one more disappointing than the other. This one is too young. (Most of them are too young); that one is too good looking to be trusted. He’s shallow. I have nothing in common with that one. This one’s not interested in me in that way. That one is unavailable even if he was; he doesn’t have Zing…!*

None of them have Zing…!

None of them even come close to comparing to Him. I came to that conclusion while driving home. I knew that I’m nowhere near ready to move on or forward or over.

But I know that I have to because that’s what you are supposed to do. I know that I have to because Jack Penate says that I should. (And because his voice is captivating and because melody is the language of the soul I should listen to him.)

I listen and hope that one day, soon, I’ll manage to ‘pull my heart away’.

(*Zing…! Not my own word; rather that of my new friend and awesome-st wing woman ever, A)

A little over three months ago, I confessed that I had not been on an airplane in two years.

As usual, you were all lovely and understanding and flooded my comment box with tips and stories and advice. I was ready to get on a plane and make the trip for my best friend’s engagement party.

Except, when the big day arrived,  I did not get on that plane.

I managed to get to the airport. I managed to wait in line. I managed to check in–while sobbing uncontrollably. But I never managed to even begin walking to the departure gate.  The Xanax didn’t work. Somehow, my panic was no match for the chemicals.My fear had paralyzed me.

The next 24 hours rank right up there with the most traumatic experiences of my life. In all my adult life, I have not  felt like such a failure as I did that day. In all my adult life, I have not felt less understood as I did on that day. Slowly, as the news trickled down to all the relevant people, my panic grew fiercer. The reactions were diverse. An overwhelming silence from the friends that were already on the island waiting to pick me up at the airport. Rage from my brother who believes in ‘tough love’. Anxiousness and guilt from my mother. My sister and The Best Friend were proud. “You fucking made it to the airport! You checked in! You took your first step!”

Over the course of the next month, which coincided with the first three weeks of my relationship with him, I self-medicated myself with Xanax every single day. I was chain smoking. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep without a pill.

I told no-one.

(I don’t recommend this strategy)

Sure, there were conversations had–here and there–about what happened. And all of them made me feel worse. He was a good distraction from all these things. My mind was filled with him; purposefully. If I allowed myself to not think of him I would have to deal with the plethora of guilt, disappointment and fear that I felt inside. What kind of person misses their best friend’s engagement? What kind of person can’t get on a plane? What kind of person can allow irrational fear to consume her in this way? But the one question that replayed itself over and over in my mind was the most frightening of all.

“Was this going to be my life for ever?”

I say I was at peace when I met him. And I was. But, beneath the peace was all of this. I was dealing with all of this while trying to begin a relationship. That it failed, therefore, is not surprising. That I broke down–completely–when it ended was inevitable.

I am not ashamed of my panic attack disorder or the depression. (The two seem to go hand in hand.)  But, I do hate it. It gets in my way. It ruins relationships–friendships and romances, it causes tension in my family and it stops me from living exactly the kind of life that I want to live. But, it is here. Over the last year, I have tried to avoid it while also trying to defeat it. After the troubling summer I had, I realized that I can’t avoid it. I can’t control it. I can’t defeat it without the proper tools. I learned that this is one battle that I have to face on my own. That those around me will never, really, understand it.  I learned that others will never really accept it.

These realizations were–and continue to be– isolating.

But, I know that I”m not alone. According to the UK’s National Health Service, at least 10% of the world’s population suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder. There are a lot of us out there. And so I wanted to put out part of my story. Its fragmented and all over the place, I know. But, its fragmented and all over the place in my head.

Perhaps, in time, I will be able to make sense of it; express it more eloquently. But for now, the admission that I am a phobic is all the sense I can make.

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.

I remember the good ol’ days when all I would think about was blogging.

I would compose blog posts in my head, in the shower, while driving, on the back of receipts while standing in line at the supermarket. Nowadays, I have a writer’s notebook. And in it, I write. The need to share my writing has waned. Because my need to expose myself has waned. As much as I would like to be the kind of blogger that posts every day about anything and everything, I can’t be. When I sit down to write, even fiction, it is always those inner, inner thoughts about fears and love and relationships and truth and death and meaning.

I don’t do small talk (Well, I do but it makes me uncomfortable) so, I’d rather not post about small things. (Even though I have opinions about all of that lovely stuff like my insane obsession with Jon Stewart and leggings)

The truth is that I’m embarrassed.

In July, I honestly believed that I had found The One. And I blogged about it in the way that I have always done. With absolute abandon and no regard to the future. But I swear I was certain. I was convinced that this blog was about to evolve from single girl to attached girl. That its very name ‘Hope Dies Last’ would finally be a source of real and documented inspiration.

But then it all blew up in my face.

And for the very first time in my blogging experience I was utterly and completely mortified.

What on earth possessed me to share yet another romance and the subsequent rejection to the masses? How many times do my readers really need to read the same exact experience? And oh my god, in the last three years, I seem to be having the same exact experience over and over again; with four different men.

I’ve always maintained that I’m not that fussed about the impression that I give people; on and off line. But this time, for unclear reasons, I gave a damn. I was embarrassed by this rejection. And I didn’t want to write about it because I was embarrassed. But it was the only thing I wanted to write about. And so I just stopped writing.

I’m still a little red around the cheeks. But I think its time that I jumped back on the metaphorical horse and be the blogger that I was; the blogger that I am. The only kind of blogger that I know how to be.