"Not So Much" No More

It is said that love alights on our shoulder when we are carelessly looking in the other direction. Perhaps my perpetual singledom is due partially to a constant state of cross-eye; keeping one eye fixedly placed away from the goal, while the other gazes with deliberate wanderlust over my shoulder. It’s all Felicity’s fault, really. Yes, Felicity and every other hour long melodrama and chick flick that insinuated I could go a little off my gourd and still win over Scott Speedman (all without even smudging my mascara!). I too could nab the emotionally accessible, sensitive, good looking guy – who, naturally, would always smell good. Alas, how disillusioned I was. The truth? Very few can put up with my frayed ends longer than a fortnight. The so-called ‘sensitive’ ones really just seem to be fraying even quicker than I am. Most who appear overtly good looking put more time and energy into upkeep than I do (no thanks!), and let’s just face it. They all stink. All the while, I’m still single.
DISCLAIMER: I am not any kind of navigational expert in the land of delirious dating debacles. Actually, I can stench it up just as royally as the rest of them. More often than not, despite my best intentions, I impulsively react to all my relationship endeavors from the most aching corners of my spirit. It’s hard to soften into the bruised and embittered places when the wrong gut instincts are repeat offenders. Yesterday’s pain orchestrates today’s guarded reactivity. When I am finally able to put on the big girl panties and pull my self up by the bra straps, I find myself faced with the same three scenarios time and again. Let's begin with the all too self explanatory “not so much”. They fall hard, despite our asserted disinterest in Star Trek and spelunking, and seem to be next to impossible to be free of. A polite break-off on our part then BAM, there they are again on the caller ID. On the flip, it’s all too easy to fall prey to playing the “not so much” ourselves. I, for one, would be an Olympic triathlete in the events of relationship fear, falling hard, and having a certain magnetic draw towards those who just plain don’t want me. All three perfect fodder for the “not so much”, and a surefire way to stay single. The next and most popular scenario, “I just don’t know”. A wishy washy non committal wade pool that usually results in a comfortable dead end. When are we merely settling and when is it worth taking a risk? The difference for me comes with a certain willingness to stretch beyond my familiar skin. This leads me to the final scenario of, “I think this could work.” This is the time when I finally decide to stop blockading my feelings for the sake of safety. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, hold my nose and – yup – become a complete moron.
Why does it seem that in the initial stages of letting go into a relationship that we believe in, we have this ability to become a complete anomaly unto ourselves? There’s a certain insatiable openness that leaves me helplessly fumbling after stolen words and wished for moments. I’m a toddler, tripping over myself. Ordering food I don’t like, uttering phrases my ear filters as lies. “Why yes, I’ve been to Mexico!”, or “I love basketball!”, then “Gee, that sure sounds swell”! While the words careen from my mouth, my head assaults me, “Just be honest, damn oaf. Oaf”? It’s not that the truth is shameful, per se. It’s that possibility can sometimes be so completely intoxicating. My whole self tends to give way to reckless abandon as my logical mind struggles to walk with me through something that truly circumvents all reason.
Fast forward to today. Bad date #76 draws to a triumphant close, my bridesmaid balance is slowly creeping toward the 2 grand marker, the baby shower tab is not far behind, and now the extended family is fully convinced I’m a lesbian. It’s a couple’s world that likes to place the seemingly woebegone singles at life’s kiddie table. This seems like a damn good time for a celebration all my own. I’m one stellar cat lady – why not marry myself, a la Carrie Bradshaw. Register at Saks and Neiman’s. Get myself a pair of Jimmy Choos that are not off E-Bay. Hell, I’d even register at Target. Just to make the ultimate single statement to myself – whilst inheriting new wine glasses. This way after bad date #77, I can come home to my cat, very well dressed, and enjoy my fine furnishings. All silly materialistic reminders that I’ve always been okay, I’m still okay, and I’ll always have myself till death do us part.
Well, here I land. Ahem. Valentine’s Day. More a commercial holiday than anything else (and an oblong nudge to the singles to remind us that yes, we are indeed single). In years past, I’ve gotten real drunk and just mooned cupid in all my bitterness, half wishing he would take the opportunity to shoot his arrow square in my ass. My favorite Valentine to date? An expensive dinner out with the girls. Now there’s love. The most amazing love I know? Playing dress up with my God babies, or having coffee with my best friend. I think I’ll shake the bitterness thing this year, and let myself go in a different way. I’m going to fall passionately in love with what’s already mine. Maybe that’s what is really meant by “not looking” for love. We stop the selfless lying and aimless trying, to paint the moment with what is.
It’s a dating jungle out there. A messy safari where marriage is the endangered species. Yet a piece of all singles seems constantly on the prowl. Find me. Know me. Love me. Make me complete. Show me a new version of myself I’ve yet to know. The best version. So many hopes, so much of the future placed idly in the hands of a perfect stranger. This is why my new modis operandi is to be the best version of me regardless. To understand I am complete now, single. Our friends and kindred spirits grace our lives and enhance them. This is what I seek in relationships too. Enhance me. Embrace me. Challenge me. Take a risk. And hell, if you clean up well enough and don’t smell too bad…