I wouldn't date me right now.
I mean, I just. straight. up. would. not. (hi, you're welcome- this is what we call a disclaimer....don't say I didn't tell you so.)
To tell you that I think it's a "bad idea" is a little bit like saying, "throwing your hair dryer into a bathtub full of innocent children merrily playing with rubber duckies is a bad idea...." Bad idea doesn't even come close, let's try something more like; terrible, no good, tragic, just go stab yourself in the eye with a pool cue, idea. I suppose people would also call this self-sabotage- I'm an unfortunate case study into the minds of the recently heartbroken.
Somewhere between my schizophrenic emotions and convincing people that I'm "undateable" I've managed to rack up more than one perfectly dateable, solid, great guy who thinks he can change my mind. And you know what, selfishly, I'll let him try... I'll let him try because I don't think I'm a total lost cause. I'll let him try because I believe in romance and love and connection and that whole "soulmate" thing. I'll let him (them) try because I believe amazing magical things can happen over plates of gnocchi and perfectly picked produce. I'll let him try because he knows that he's "trying..." that I've got many a trap door to walk through.
I'll let them try because I think more than often than not people surprise you and more than anything, we surprise ourselves. One moment we're clinging to the threads of what was and then "what was" is replaced by what is, and what IS, is series of small differences that weave themselves in fragments to start; a strand here, an anecdote there.... he starts understanding the subtext of the way you say a certain word, you start making plans a week out...a month out...strand by strand. I'll let them try because I want to look upon someone adoringly, I want to make room in my life for more than a party of one. I'll let them try....
..and with every effort, I'll messy it a bit. I'll pick at the edges that are peeling until the entire thing needs a new coat of paint. I'll take something pure, blank, and I'll scribble daisies, eyeballs and crooked hearts in blue ink on it. I'll push them away, I'll make excuses- I'll throw another date into the mix, because it'll make it easier for me to walk away from one or the other and feign interest, in place of dealing with how I really feel. Which is a whole lot of nothing. Emotions, off. A rusty, heavy, valve I used my withering biceps to turn off.
I'm a girl who doesn't have the ability to make the distinction between someone "right" and someone right now. I'm a hurt person running the risk of hurting other people....and that's the cycle as it goes....
I had "right." I found the pockets I wanted to put my hands in, the musk on the neck collar that I wanted to smell every day. I was comfortable with the rhythm of him....and when one sweet boy says, "Chels, are you afraid if by dating me you close the door on him?" the answer is YES. Yes, I want my door, my heart, the glow of my porch light with a warm body on the inside to be there....with a Welcome mat, that says, "Let's try this again."
I know, it makes my stomach churn too.
It's everything from inconvenient, to disconcerting...to futile. Completely and utterly, futile.
It's part of why the last two weeks have been nearly impossible for me to sit down and WRITE. To communicate....to consider the hearts of the people I'm involved with and also be honest. Not just to them, but to myself. Lying to yourself is surprisingly easy until you sit down at a blank screen and your words are sharp, pushy and deafening. Turns out blogging, when some of the relationships, people and situations are public isn't ideal. Shocker.
So what do I do with that? WHAT. DO. I. WE/US/THEM. DO WITH ALL OF THAT?
The only decisions to be made are the ones right in front of me, I'm completely nearsighted. You take a trip to San Francisco, then you go to Vancouver...you have dinner with someone new, you spend a night at home by yourself watching Basquiat wishing you were given the green light to be fucking crazy because you were a painter. You consider taking up painting. You carve pumpkins with your girlfriends and get a little fatter over fried mac and cheese squares at midnight. Then you try not to drunk text and you wake up in the morning, "wee! didn't drunk text!" and then you try not to sober text, when you see something that only he would understand via text. You consider giving up texting period.
You continue. You date. You marinate. You take one step forward and 9,000 steps backwards. Then you do a fucking skip and a hop, (perhaps a cartwheel even) forward again. You let him make you laugh, then you let him say, "I'll go to war for your heart..." and you revel in that, because the one that was "right" didn't say that. And probably never will. SO, you let people adore you, because as much as you don't think you're worth adoring, all of that ish is fictitious. (Yeah, Fergie said it.) FACT.
Would you date "you?"