Truth be told, things have been pretty stellar for me lately.
As you might have noticed, I’ve been freelancing more, I accepted a new job at a startup I really believe in (and I absolutely love the people), my agent is actively trying to sell my book and I’m falling more in love with the East Village and my new home daily.
And while the whole dating thing hasn’t brought me much luck as of late, I’ve mostly remained pretty even keel and positive. I’ve been going on at least one date a week, and though I haven’t been that into anyone – I’ve kept my head high and enjoyed the company of my friends instead of harping on a date-gone-wrong.
So, why on Saturday night, at 1 a.m., I decided to have a complete and total temper-tantrum, I still don’t know.
The day itself was the thing that great Saturdays are made of: relaxation, friends, activity and of course, some flirting. My roommate C and I headed across the river to Williamsburg to try CrossFit for the first time (I’m still in pain from the experience), followed by a slightly boozy brunch and blaring top 40 hits while getting ready for an afternoon and evening out. One bar turned into another, and by 8 p.m., we were sharing pizza with my friend A and her husband M, playing Apples to Apples and sipping pumpkin beers.
C and I hit the village after and met up with a guy she met this summer and his friends. I didn’t find his pals that attractive, but I was intrigued enough to make small talk and potentially dance the night away. After some witty banter and shared seductive glances, one of the guys finally went for it (or so I thought):
What are you drinking there? Vodka water? he asked.
Nah, I’m more of a gin and tonic kind of girl, what about you? I replied, taking the last sip of my drink.
I’m cool with just beer, mostly. Want to go to the bar? he continued, while he started to walk into the crowd. I followed and he met his other friend, and they ordered drinks, took shots, cheered my empty glass and basically pretended like I wasn’t there. It might have been a mix of exhaustion, alcohol and plain frustration, but I glared at both of them, checked to make sure C was okay – and then grabbed a cab home.
As I walked into my apartment – the one that we’ve slowly decorated with care and feels just like home – I felt disgusted. I took a look at my room, messy and coated in clothes I didn’t want to wear, ones that made me feel unattractive and overweight – and I pushed them off of my bed. I took off the constricting bra that pushed my boobs up just enough to peek through the top of my v-neck blouse (well, the one I borrowed from C, this is) and I threw on a long t-shirt, as I took off my skirt. And even though Lucy was scratching at my legs, begging to be acknowledged, I shooed her away and I sat down in the middle of my room…
…and I cried.
I cried about all of the times I haven’t felt good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, tall enough, sassy enough, anything enough to attract the attention from guys I don’t even want to date. And for the ones that I did. I cried about the immense stress and strength it takes to go on yet another date when nearly 100 percent of all of the dates I’ve gone on have severely disappointed me. And the ones that haven’t, the ‘relationship‘ ended before they could even get started. I cried about the lack of romantic company, the sexual frustration that I can’t even begin to describe and the vast emptiness that is my bed, sometimes. I cried about the huge, consuming fear that boils in the pit of my stomach and through my heart – it’s the one that always comes at times like this, making me wonder if there is any man on this entire island that will love me in the way that I so dearly want to be adored.
… and then I prayed.
I prayed and pleaded with God to just make it happen. To just send someone. I asked for an email or a text message, a comment on this blog or a symbolic something to reassure me that will all work out. I prayed for hope and for courage to keep on going, to march through this beautiful life I’ve created for myself, and to let go of all of my worries and doubts surrounding love. I prayed for peace about the topic and that if the universe doesn’t intend on giving me the man I so badly want to meet, then to please – oh please, please, please! – just take away the desire for it. The weight is just too much to bear sometimes.
And then, for no reason other than complete, total insanity, with a stuffed-up nose and a mascara wildly splattered across my cheek and Lucy giving me the WTF look in the corner, I stood up and punched my bed.
But that wasn’t good enough. Nope.
I pulled down the blinds as hard as I could – causing them to fall. On top of my window sill. Causing a glass to break into shreds. On top of my new white shag rug.
And then, the 26-year-old side of me came back to life, cleaned up the mess, washed my face, apologized to Lucy and put my sorry attitude to bed, calming my heart and mind down as I drifted to sleep.
Now this morning, as a level-headed adult, I’m mad that I let my anger and my (yep, I’ll admit it) immaturity get the best of me. I didn’t really need – or want! – those guys to buy me a drink. I didn’t see anyone on Saturday night that I was remotely interested in, and yet, I wanted the attention. I wanted the validation that I was worthy of being admired. Wanted. Desired. Even if I wasn’t particularly drawn to anyone, I wanted them to be drawn to me. If for no other reason, then to reassure me that I’m not going to be alone forever.
There I said it: the temper-tantrums I have once in a blue moon are all due to one simple fear of being alone. I supposed three years of being single in Manhattan will do that to you.
The thing is, in my heart-of-hearts and in that part of me that’s still wide-eyed and full of dreams of what my life could one day be, I do believe in that man. I do believe that all of this time, all of those dates, all of these blogs, and hopefully one day, all of the books – will be completely worth the wait. I know I’m not settling when I could be and that most of the time, I’m pretty calm about being single until the time is right. More often than not, I try my best to savor these years of freedom instead of anticipating what’s next or when this great big love will arrive in my life.
Even so, I think sometimes you need to have a temper tantrum. To release the stress, the pain, the anxiety, the feelings we all harbor while going through this happily-ever-after elimination process that’s as entertaining as it is taxing. Because even if it’s a little ridiculous to cry over something silly, it instantly makes me feel better and frankly, a little relieved and lighter.
Next time though, I think I’ll just make sure to move my wine glass away from anything heavy that could, um, come crashing down on it. Whoops.