This is going to sound arrogant but stay with me. I’m lonely and alone because I choose to be. I am subscribed to dating apps. And the free dating app on Facebook. I’m not a bikini babe. Not even close. I am not an exotic entertainer with giant fake boobs. Or a heroin svelte gamer girl with tattoos. I’m not that kind of cool. I’m a different kind of cool. Maybe not cool? I am not sure.
And there are days when I remind myself of a few important things. Hey, nerd girl, you just got divorced. Prior to that, you went through four (4) years of incredible hell. You almost died three times. You struggled financially with medical debt and a deliberately insolvent spouse. Bad stuff happened. Really bad stuff. But look at you. Still here on this planet. Still a kind and generous heart. Still creative AF and trucking in your career.
My day is full of IMs. Not every day, but weekly, there are recruiters in my inbox on LinkedIn. I segued into medical cannabis marketing because I am passionate about alternative medicines. You know, using plants instead of opioids. This comes from a place of watching a close family member struggle with depression, and addiction to them. My whole life, in fact. So, I hate compounded pain medications. Opioids are evil.
The other part of my day is full of IMs from family and friends. That’s my blessing because I do have people across the world that do really care about me. And I love them. So much. Those are the nice IMs. The check-in are from people who care. And sometimes, some good gossip from back home.
And then there are the IMs from the dating apps. And while part of me realizes most people would be flattered? I am not. Because the more I receive of them the more disillusioned I become. I don’t think what I am looking for even exists anymore.
Smash and Dash is the New Black
Whoever coined the phrase “smash” should be spanked. And not in a fun way. It’s the word used to describe hooking up. Or what old people like me used to call “one night stands”. I’m not going to lie. I’ve had two of them in my life. Both involved alcohol. And muscles. Hey, I’m Italian. I have a libido. But as a 48-year-old two-time divorcee? I’ve got that bad girl libido not only on a leash, I’ve duct-taped her to my closet and shut the door.
The generous offers to “come over” and deliver “the lovins” never stop. As though meaningless sex was some kind of gift bestowed upon a single woman. If I am single, I must therefore be desperate for any attention I can get right? Particularly as an attractive, but an overweight woman? I shouldn’t be picky. I should be grateful that some men deliver faster than Doordash.
If that’s what you do, and you sincerely have fun and are not doing damage to your being, cool. Have at it. For me, I seek a deeper kind of connection. Do I love sex? Well, you’ll have to read some of my erotic writing. I keep it on the down-low now, for professional reasons. But I still write stories that make people tingle. And get paid well for those short stories. From the mind of a lover, comes delicious scenes that hopefully, inspire people to level up. For their own satisfaction.
But I am not a ‘smash and dash’. And the offer doesn’t appeal to me. And it’s a little bit morals, but a lot of self-respect. I am not playing the “withhold sex” bait and switch game. To ‘hook’ a man. I don’t need a man, financially. That is the big difference I think. I’m not looking to spend someone’s money. Or have someone financially care for me. It’s not about cash.
It’s about connection. And I think for that reason, my needs and wants are antiquated. If those guys do exist, they are married. And some of them are married, pretending to not be married. It’s a minefield, this dating thing. And I hate it.
Social Butterfly in Hibernation
I am the most social person you may meet. God, I love being around people. And I love spoiling the people I love. With attention, and affection. I’m one of those consummate givers. And that’s a problem.
Because for every human like me, there is a long line of consummate takers. Oooh… a nice girl. Hasn’t “been around too much” aka ‘low mileage’. Yep. Because I am a serial monogamist. Even though I have to be honest, I delude myself into thinking that casual is probably better. Snuggle buddies. Whatever you want to call them. I did try that. Someone got hurt. I refuse to use someone for the basic needs and deny them the connection that is the best part of being in a relationship.
Someone pointed out to me that everyone who is single in their forties and fifties is broken, somehow. Divorces. Bad life experiences. Bankruptcies. Whatever the case, life walloped them, and while they are still standing, they have dents all over them. And bad behaviors are born from the need to defend themselves against exploitation.
That’s probably me. I mean, I have five rescue dogs. Sure, if you add them all together they are less than one big dog weight-wise. But, five little dogs (even though I have no children) is about the same as admitting you don’t shave your legs because you are single. I shave my legs every two days. All the way up. For me. So that I feel pretty. The fact that no one sees those zones is irrelevant. It’s emotional self-care.
I keep asking myself how someone who loved kids so much, ended up with none. How someone who was so eager to share a life with someone, ends up single, again. Through her own choice to end something toxic. No regrets on that one. But I woke up this morning with my head on a pillow and for a brief moment (I guess I must have been dreaming something nice) I thought there was a man there. Because I nuzzled in. And then, my face got licked. I opened my eyes and Grayson (my dog) was giving me a weird look.
Breaking Isolation in the Midst of a Pandemic
Hey, guess what? In 2021, I didn’t “almost die” for a change. I joked with my mom about that on the phone and we did a verbal fist-bump. I told her a little bit about meeting a guy that lit up my circuit board. I wasn’t gushing, I was just commenting how sapiosexual I am. The first thing I notice is not the body, it’s the brain inside it. And confidence. Wit and banter are like… well, if you are a man you may as well rub chocolate all over yourself. The effect is the same for me.
And I have dated the spectrum. I am so ‘woke’ that even when I find a great guy, that hits almost all the check marks on the list, there has to be that intellectual connection. He has to be more dominant than me. Not being a tool, but that’s hard to find. I’m a powerful personality. You’d be surprised how often I wish that wasn’t the case.
He has to be smarter than me too. Again (going to sound like a jerk here) but that’s also hard to find. Articulate. Geeky. Science-fiction nerd. I was literally ready to throw my panties at a new man I met because he was an ace at classic Star Wars trivia. Stop looking at me like that… I don’t get it either. It just is that way.
Messing It Up As I Do
Poor guy. I was so excited like one alien finding another alien on the planet from the same homeworld. I FLIRTED my ass off with him. I realize in retrospect, I’m intimidating. Because my personality is seen, want, get! I’m wired that way, and it helps in other areas of my life. But men are hunters. They don’t like to be hunted. I made a fool of myself.
And the killing blow is… after dating, he’s been the only person to light me up like that. In my head. Make my heart pound when he was conversational. The banter… delicious. The brain? Ahhh… I’m not his type. That much became evident, so I graciously bowed out, while I still had some self-respect.
But I felt it. That stirring all the way in. His personality stirred me. I wasn’t bored talking to him. I wasn’t assessing him. And while I can be guilty of playing mind games (sorry… I think it’s a risk aversion thing, trying to control the narrative for my own protection) he was immune to them. And I LIKED THAT! He was smarter than I am. And I really liked that too.
Life’s way I suppose of reminding me what I am supposed to be looking for. Even if this great guy wasn’t a match, it reset my search parameters. Although talking to one person today who was not him, I was reminded how rare that kind of guy is. And that made me feel a quiet sadness. I’m looking for a unicorn. And when I find one, I am not their flavor. I’ll have to think about that for a while *munches cookie*.
1000000% me. Not him.
On The Bright Side I’m Learning Stuff
I guess, I mean, the good thing? Human interaction not work-related. That excitement I hadn’t felt in so long. Not for any man (I’ve been dating quite a lot since I moved to Austin). He wasn’t the first ‘nice guy’ to come along. But he lit up the circuit board that I thought was dead. And now, I guess, I have a prototype or recent reference to go by. I’d like a boyfriend like that. I really would.
Not a husband. Not a roommate. Not someone to ride in and save me. This girl is doing the work on her own. On herself. Caring for herself. Trying to be a good person, and navigate the dating world with integrity. And class. And I wrote a poem that really punctuates what I think is the problem. It’s called “Too Much and Not Enough“.
I’m too much of everything. Confidence, energy, talkativeness, adventurousness, sensuality, ambition, responsibility, and social butterfly-ness. An incorrigible comedienne after as little as a glass of wine. Not young enough. Not thin enough. Not good-looking enough. And not submissive enough to be palatable for the average man. Let alone the above-average intellectual sort.
And unwilling and incapable of being anything but me.
This is also, clearly, a problem.
Thank you for getting me out of the house. That was kind of you. And for fixing my Bluetooth in the car. And for making me remember how much a priority intelligence is and technophilia. #Hot
I’m a pack animal with no local pack. But the integrity to not ‘fake it’ either. Or use anyone to satiate my needs. Lonely is common this time of year, far from home, and given the year I have had. It’s normal. I just have to make room for it in my life, and not allow it to consume me. Because it is doing that. And I hate it.
Some empowered debutante I am. I’ll be in my blanket fort. Screwing my head on straight.
