I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried fucking, I’ve tried not dating and not fucking. I’ve created a pretty clear illustration of what it is I’d like to have in my life in the form of a male companion and articulately shared it with several of the courser sex only to, when kindly offered it, wrinkled my nose, shut it all down, and walked away.
I downloaded Tinder two days ago after a 2 or 3 week hiatus.
It was after I had slipped up and texted someone I didn’t want to text, two stupid little words sent out into the ether to be blithely ignored yet again. I thought it would be better to get some sort of exchange from brand new men rather than beg for it from one who’s already proven himself to be a less than stellar communicator.
First, I wiped out all the matches that hadn’t developed into a conversation dating all the way back to February. It took me 30 minutes of tapping. Surely the Tinder Gods can develop an easier way of clearing that kind of shit out of there.
Then I checked in on old chats. If I wasn’t truly interested I unmatched those, too. I went from close to 300 matches to less than 75 and I still wasn’t done. I felt immensely lighter.
Last, I started swiping. Left for NO, right for YES. Nothing written in the profile? LEFT. Not local? LEFT. Too young, too old, too fat, too skinny, too irritating sounding, too emo, too bro? LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, and LEFT again.
I quickly began stacking up matches again and felt some excitement. I started talking to a 26-year-old soccer coach from Scotland. He promised his mum wouldn’t mind him chatting up an almost 40-year-old soccer mom. We jumped to text and I sent his pic to Amy who exclaimed at his cuteness. I felt the momentum building, the excitement. I could do this!
He asked when he could see me and I told him I was free Friday. He was quite happy with himself and we settled on meeting for drinks somewhere between our two houses. Lots of smiley faced emojis were sent my way.
And then I immediately regretted it.
I don’t want to sit across from him for even 30 minutes. He’s 26 years old, for Christ’s sake. He lives with a host family and can never have a sleepover, his tiny man nipples are pierced, something I find rather unappealing, and he’s teaching soccer for a living. This isn’t the kind of man I want in my life long-term. It isn’t even the kind of man I want in my life short-term: he’s not The Neighbor.
Just when I think I can open myself up to even the littlest amount of male entertainment I am overcome with this feeling of repugnance. TN once told me that he had zero desire to date anyone. At the time I couldn’t wrap my head around it, I was in the middle of my mad frenzy to find someone to fill his spot, but I get it now. Truly. I really am undateable.
I feel badly for the men I’m hurting and leading on. I don’t mean to do it. I honestly believe that when I reach out or respond that I can follow through with a normal human interaction, but it’s like I am seized with a cramp mid stroke across the Channel and I just can’t go one foot further.
The Lawyer asked me last night when he could see me next. I optimistically told him next Friday. Realistically, it may never happen. He’s just not TN.
I am often routinely by friends for my feelings towards The Neighbor, but I very strongly reply that I am no more in control of my feelings than they are. If I could figure out how to control my fucking feelings, I would rule the world. There would be no homicidal rages or deep depressions, no panic attacks and no stupid decisions made under the influence of love. I would teach everyone how to feel exactly how they wanted to whenever they wanted and we would float along in a goddamned Utopia heavily weighted on the end of the “happy” spectrum with ne’er a sad tear or blemish of unrequited love in sight.
I’m sick to death of hearing myself go on and on about all of this, but I am circling the drain. I just am.
I’m eating right, exercising, being creative, focusing on Peyton. I’m doing delectable things for myself that feel like treats along with a few things I know are naughty which bring me pleasure nonetheless. I’m getting organized, I’m looking forward, I’m doing everything one is supposed to do in this situation probably with the exception of being patient. I am impatient.
I’m tired of feeling this way, lost and untouchable. I want to be past this point in the healing process so badly I keep trying to run despite my broken leg. It’s like I’m the Black Knight and I refuse to acknowledge I’m not fit to fight. I’ve utterly lost the battle to heartbreak.
I need to stay away from people still, clearly, and I need to redirect my angst whenever the mood hits me to reach outside of myself. My current plan is no contact with TN for 3 weeks — a whole week longer than I typically last — and then I’ll reevaluate, possibly add on time. Or maybe I’ll indulge my urge to touch base and see how he is. I don’t know.
We spent time together on Saturday and it was no different from before. It was easy, it was sad. I felt no better or worse. Naturally, I’ve kept it a secret from my friends, but I just don’t feel like defending myself to them. It’s my heart and I can care for it in any way I see fit and if that means occasional contact while I figure things out, then so be it. The heart wants what the heart wants and until I become Ruler of the Universe that’s just the way it’s going to be.