A Chapter in my Dating Memoirs . . .

Okay so, about 6 years ago I went through a divorce. And I started dating again. And it was a wild, hilarious ride. I almost loved the weirdest dates the best so I could laugh with my best friend on the phone from the bathroom. So I started writing my dating memoirs. Call me sentimental. I just didn't want to forget about the special men I dated. Like the nose picker. I was riding in the car with a man I had dated maybe once before. And we’re driving along on a cool evening. Making small talk. “What’s your family like?” “Where did you grow up?” Blah. Blah. Blah. And so he sticks his finger up his nose. And he digs around for a little bit. I’m feeling a bit awkward at this point. I’m polite and pretend not to notice. And he pulls out a big one. Then he rolls down the window to flick it out. OMG. But it doesn’t just come off. Because it’s sticky. So he has to roll it around a bit and flick a few times. Men are gross.

Then there’s the guy who orally assaulted me at the end of our date. He lunged at me forcing his tongue into my mouth. He wiggled it around at full throttle for a few seconds as I backed into the wall. Then he stood back, threw his hands in the air and shouted “Woo hoo!!!” Like he just won 5 bucks on an instant cash ticket. I had to bathe, drink a bottle of wine, and drunk-text my ex to recover.

So the chapter written below is the last chapter that I’ve written. A lot of stuff has happened since I wrote it. But I’ll save that for another day.

The Day I Fell in Love with John

Love happens in different ways. Sometimes people fall in love with each other the first time they look in each other’s eyes. It’s fast. And sure. And sometimes it fades. But it was there. Sometimes it grows slowly. Maybe beginning as a friendship. Sometimes it’s not love. It’s the satisfaction of a temporary need. Maybe a loneliness. Maybe an adventure. Then the need goes away and so does the lack of love. It becomes a memory.

I remember the first couple of months I dated John. He made my stomach anxious. Made my knees weak. Just like you read about in books or see in the movies. Usually bad movies. I remember our long talks telling each other about our lives. Getting to know each other. The crooks and crannies. Faded dreams. Disappointments. Surprises. It was like moving into a new home or learning to play a new instrument. John and I both really love music. I admired his passion for playing and writing songs. We’d go see shows. Amid the excitement of watching the musicians work their instruments and the flow of the songs, John would put his arm around me. He would rub my neck. Kiss my head. I felt surprised and happy and safe. I felt like it was important. Our relationship was important. It was different.

One night I sat on the front porch swing and talked to John on the phone. We said we didn’t know if we’d ever be able to fall in love again. You know, the kind of falling in love you do when you’re young. The kind that’s endlessly hopeful and optimistic and carefree and pure. Not poisoned by the disappointment and betrayal of relationships past. On that warm evening on the porch swing, I felt sad and nostalgic and hopeful.

Sometimes I thought that maybe I was in love with John. I’d wonder when we laid in bed together and I couldn’t sleep because our bodies were so close. It was so new. One night though, I fell in love. I knew it as much as anyone can know sort of thing. I mean there’s no playbook or significant event. And we’ve all thought we were and later realized that love paraded as something else and less.

But this one night. I remember it was toward the beginning of our relationship. We had dated maybe a month or two. I went over to his condo at about 7 or 7:30. It was a little bit chilly and I wore my heart sweatshirt and my corduroy jacket and a scarf. I remember John liked my jacket. I felt sad that night. I felt emotionally tortured. That’s what I said to myself – “tortured.” Maybe a little bit dramatic but what’s not dramatic about new relationship? I was crazy about him. I adored his sense of humor, his vulnerability, and his search. John’s a lot like me in that he’s always searching for something more. More happiness. A better home. More friends. More . . . meaning. Something more. I remember feeling tortured because I had these really strong feelings. They scared me. Sometimes they felt reciprocated. Sometimes not. Sometimes it felt like John was searching for something more, even in me.

I told him when I saw him that I was in a funk. He said he was as well. Instead of heading out to dinner right away like we usually did, we opened a bottle of merlot. Maybe a Yellowtail. And we went and sat on the back patio on his Victorian resin furniture that he inherited from a friend because she couldn’t have resin furniture. And I’m not sure how the conversation began but we ended up talking about past relationships. John told me he had been hurt by a girl. He was still angry about it although John doesn’t like to admit to lingering feelings about the past. I told him about my ex and how we worked so hard for so long and we were so close to making it.

So John and I talked and a gap narrowed the way that purging about past hurts usually brings people closer. I remember he looked sad. So on this night, I sat in John’s lap feeling the warmth of the wine and our newfound closeness. I put my arm around his neck. I told him that I hoped that one day he could fall in love with me. Because I wanted him to. Because it felt right. And in that very moment, it felt like we had made that journey to find each other. You know how we look for purpose in life? We try to find purpose and meaning in things that happen. In good things. But especially in difficult things. Difficult times. So in that moment, I had peace. Because I thought I had discovered a purpose to part of my journey. I was elated.

So that was it. That was how John and I were supposed to fall in love. Only it didn’t happen that way. I fell in love. By myself. John’s love just kind of wavered maybe. Even though there was no love in the first place.

I asked him tonight, I said, “John, are you in love with me?” He said that sometimes he felt like he was there and sometimes he didn’t. I’m not sure where “there” is. I thought it was kind of him to impersonalize it. You know like it didn’t have anything to do with me. Just a place he hadn’t arrived at yet. Like the Grand Canyon or a rest stop on the way to Washington.

And you know, I don’t know if it does have anything to do with me. At least in the sense that I’m flawed or something. I mean, I am, right? Everyone is.

I felt sad for me because I wanted John to love me. And I felt sad for him because I know he wanted to love me. And I’ve been there before. I wanted so badly to love someone back. But you just can’t force these things. Everyone knows that, right?

So anyway, John never fell in love with me. At least for now. And it hurt. It burned and exasperated and saddened. But I hold on to that belief in meaning and purpose. I hold on to it and hope that one day, the purpose of this hurt will become evident, just like I glimpsed purpose the night I fell in love with John.

And part of me hopes that one day I’ll find that love. That love that is simple and innocent and equal. That’s what I’ll wait for. And part of me hopes that one day, maybe it will be with John.