I’m lamenting on my roommate’s bed while she get’s ready to do a podcast. I hate lamenting, but on a day where I feel so externally crummy, I figured I’d indulge at least a little bit.
I’m complaining about the most recent “false start,” a dating pattern that’s been the bulk of my romantic life for the past 5 years or so. First few dates go great, sex is at worst decent, then he gets freaked out because he “likes me so much,” or completely loses interest when I show interest, or tosses me some line that he’s “not ready” only to be in bed with someone else quicker than he’s able to delete my number from his phone.
“I’m not mad that this particular one happened, I’m just mad that it keeps happening and I’m exhausted.” I tell her.
I’m the portrait of femininity, clad head to toe in black. At 27 I’m the portrait of “over it.” I’m over being under someone new every few weeks because date night turned into a 4 night stand. I’m over the awkward first dates, and having to tell different variations of my story over and over again to strangers. I’m over having to think about the underwear I have on, or if my vag has too much stubble or how much of my personality I can show at once without scaring people off because no one has stuck around long enough to be worth the extra consideration or effort. So the point turns out to be mute.
And it’s never about the guy personally. Never have I thought, “Oh I wish HE lasted.” It’s always, “I wish SOMETHING lasted,” which is an uncomfortable place to be. I’m at a point where I look at couples and I have no memory of what that feels like. I’ve become a total alien to something so standardized.
But on the other hand, should any other romantic situations arise, I know what I won’t do. I will not sit by any electronic device waiting. I will not be an option. I will not let a potential lover’s opinion affect my self esteem, and if I feel miserable at any point in the early stages, those will be the final stages.
And that’s that.