If there’s anything being single for the past three years has taught me, it’s that I’d rather be happy by myself then unhappy in a relationship. Maybe it’s because my parents’ almost-30-year marriage is a beautiful example of what I think a great couple is, or maybe it’s because my friends have managed to date really amazing guys. But when it comes to love, whomever I end up with better be the bomb-diggity—or I’ll pass.
That being said—if you ask anyone who knows me pretty well, they’d say that I was pretty picky.
If there’s one thing I won’t reveal on a first date, it’s my last name.
Thanks to a robust writing portfolio and popular dating blog, if a dude searches my name after our happy hour meet-up, he could discovereverything I think about dating, love, and sex. Sorry you’re not sorry, Google! It is sometimes really, really frustrating to have the thing that you love to do be the thing you can’t tell possible boyfriends about (until they get to know you, at least).
Even though it’s something I’ve dealt with since I started writing about my love life four years ago, I’ve never felt ashamed about any of my blog posts until a few weeks ago when I went out with Aaron.
I know you exist.
Somewhere out in this mad city, or this crazy country or this beautifully ridiculous world, I know you exist. You have hopes that I’ve never heard, that I don’t know about yet, but these dreams paired with my wild ambitions will create our future. You have been walking on this planet, doing things and making things and being things that mean something to you. I know you are working that 9-6 (or 7 or 8) just like me, wondering when you’ll get where you’re going, even if you’re not sure where that is, exactly, just yet. I know you wake up every morning and you go to sleep every night, and in those hours, those minutes, those seconds in between, you make hundreds of decisions that have yet to lead you to me.
I know you are loved.
There is this family, these friends, these people that have the privilege to talk to you daily. These people have heard your laugh and felt your embrace, they know your voice when you speak and they have memories that go back to the decades I’ve never known you. There are people who think of you because you’ve actually spent time with them, there are women who have shared your heart and your hands, your bed and been stuck in your head. There are people who know your favorite dish, how you take your whiskey and what team you cheer for on Sundays and Mondays at the pub near your apartment, on some street in some place in some city. There are people who love you because you are already so wonderful.
So here’s the honest truth: I haven’t had sex since July.
I know, I know—you would think for someone who dates as much as I do and is so open about her personal life, I’d be getting a little more nooky. But since I ended that kind-of-relationship with Patrick right after the Fourth of July, I haven’t been laid. Sadly, I haven’t even been touched more than a drunken ass grab outside some crummy bar downtown.
It’s been a while since I’ve been in one of those relationship things. You know, that thing where you have a guy who adores you, who you hang out with all the time, and with whom you have consistent (good) sex? I wouldn’t say it’s changed me for the worse (in fact, I’ve learned a lot about myself, what I want and what I definitely don’t), but being a single gal in NYC for the past three years has made me develop a few slightly irrational fears. Or okay, a lot of them.
But I know I’m not the only one who has nightmares about being attacked in my sleep by the nonexistent cat I don’t own or that my boobs will sag to my knees before I ever have a chance for someone to truly appreciate them. Right?
From my Facebook page looking in, I seem like I pretty much have it together.
I have a job that I really love, I signed with an agent this year to turn my blog into a book, I live in one of the trendiest neighborhoods in New York City, and I’m lucky that I’m a good enough saver that I make it overseas a couple times a year for a vacation.
I’ve been pretty d*mn successful (knock on wood) so far in my 20s, but the one thing I’ve yet to master is dating.
I’ve been online dating basically since I realized it was an option. For an article for the school newspaper my sophomore year in college, I tried to sign up for eHarmony, but I wasn’t old enough (ya gotta be 21), and so it called me “unmatchable.” After crying to my mom (and um, reading the fine print), I held off on signing up again until I moved to New York.
When I arrived in the city, I signed up for Plenty of Fish, and though I did have a little luck (met a millionaire for the first time!), I was still a little too young for the market; it was easier for me to hit up a bar in midtown to meet a dude over a romantic Bud Light than to fiddle with all those search filters. I ended up meeting my ex when I fell down in front of him on a bus (go figure), and after that relationship ended, I was determined to get over him stat, so I signed up for everything.