Impressionism

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?

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.

Sunday

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)

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.

Almost

‘Time heals all wounds’, the tongue-tied tell the broken-hearted.

As seconds roll into hours and hours roll into relentlessly long days and those days turn into weeks with lines crossed through them to indicate that painstakingly slow passage of time gone, the open wounds do indeed heal.

But when the pain eases, when the stabbing, numbing ache of loss fades, all that is left is a sweet, sweet sadness. It is that sadness of almost. I almost got him. He almost got me. We almost got it right. At the core of sadness is resigned anger; no matter how much we want, how hard we try, how much we yearn nothing in the past is in our control. I get angry at him for not seeing the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at myself for allowing my fears of losing him to invade the ‘we’ that was. I get angry at the both of us for giving up, for not trusting, for not letting go.

Four weeks later, I am out of despair. I am healing nicely.

But, I’m still sad. Because we almost had it. We almost got it right.We stood at the edge, we even held hands, we looked down into the unknown, and instead of  closing our eyes and taking that giant leap forward together, we stood on that edge–eyes wide open–and we argued. ‘Should we should jump on three or should we  jump after three?’ And because we took too long, because we could not make a decision,  because we were both too cowardly to jump without wings,  our hands fell to each of our  frozen sides and we walked away.

It was easier to do that, I suppose. I suppose, it was the safest, most logical strategy. I suppose, I am better off. I suppose, he is too.

So four weeks later, I am finally there. I have accepted that it is indeed over.

Well, almost.