Saying that I don’t enjoy talking about love and dating would be more than a little lie. If I even tried to claim it, the Internet would call me out. Just Google my name and there it is: pages and pages of search terms, links, blogs and tweets about bad dates, great love and every question in between those two extremes.
So what I will say – and whole heartedly believe – is that I’m tired of the topic.
I’ve put in so much energy into analyzing and discussing, retelling stories and hashing out details that nothing is interesting anymore. Nothing makes sense and so far, nothing has worked out. There have been really wonderful and sexy and intriguing men that I’ve been attracted to and fallen for. There have been the rich and the poor, the mind games and the one night stands. There have been the too nice and the too shy, the kind and the ignorant. I’ve been annoyed and eager, convinced and dismissed.
I’ve been called every name in the book and I’ve accepted my part as the fool more than enough times. I’ve turned down guys and turned other ones on, I’ve given away my power and I’ve taken it back. I’ve gone on dates I knew wouldn’t be good and I’ve dated men I knew would never be quite what I wanted, but were comforting – and sometimes exciting- to be around.
I have boldly and pathetically preached on the streets of New York about dating, and I’ve bravely ignored the fear in the pit of my stomach and gotten up and dated again.
And again and again.
And then I’ve written about it. Often in the notes section of my iPhone (like I’m doing right now, walking down 13th street because when it hits, it hits). I’ve had very frustrating conversations with my friends and my family in person, on the phone, in New York, in Paris and on Gchat that go in circles because as much as they try, they just don’t say the right thing. (Probably because they’ve ran out of words over the years.) I’ve tried not to be as picky and I’ve tried raising my standards. I’ve sworn off online dating and picked it up again. I’ve taken a break to cure my bitterness and I’ve had sex when what I really wanted was to make love. I’ve faked with the hope of making it, and I’ve followed the rules and then broken them.
I’ve done it all.
And while I may be older, smarter, have better skin, make more money, and just a little thinner around the waist- nearly three years later, I’m still single. I’m still dating.
I’m still trying to meet someone who is worth all of this hassle. I still don’t know if I’m thinking about it the right way or doing it the wrong way. I don’t know if I still trust there is a soul mate made for me or if I just tell myself that to make myself feel better. I don’t know if love is merely a choice you make after the butterflies are tamed, and I don’t know if every couple gets the honeymoon period, or if some just sacrifice the sparks to not be alone.
I don’t know.
But the one thing I do know is that I won’t settle. I won’t just date to date. I won’t pretend to feel love to have it. I won’t accept a wolf because I’m afraid I’ll never meet a sheep. I won’t start something that I’m positive will end.
I won’t. And I haven’t. And I hope I never change my mind.
I might be a “love addict” of sorts, but it’s not just love that I love. It’s everything else. And for now I’m putting away the pen and picking up the red lipstick and I’m going to build this life of mine a little higher and a whole lot more robust. There is only so much analyzing a gal can do about love before the topic begins to feel a lot like a relationship-gone-wrong: stale, boring, frustrating and uninteresting.
Because there’s a lot more to being a 20-something than finding the right person. As I’ve always said, it’s about finding the right you, first. And it’s about time that I got back to that – and that this blog did the same.