Chapter 53: Three Ring Circus

He leans in to kiss me. I turn away.

His lips land awkwardly on my cheek, having missed their mark. Steeeerike out. I awkwardly mumble good night, bolt to my car, slam the door, and peel into the darkness like flying monkeys are snapping at my bumper, this latest online date having crashed into a smoldering pile of twisted wreckage.

My mind is racing. Why. Am. I. Even doing this?? There is something in my psyche that just can’t seem to let go of the idea of a Significant Other. A million lyrics to a billion songs march through my head belting out romantic choruses “All I need is the air that I breathe, and to love you”…”You’re my first, my last, my everything” …”Ooooooooooo, I love you”…”My… endless love”…”Gonna give you every inch of my love”…okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point. From birth I have been drowned in this idea of the Magical Significant Other who would ride in on his white stallion and save the day, carrying me over the threshold into a loving, fulfilling relationship enduring blissfully through our twilight years, when he pushes me on a swing in the park like a picture on a Hallmark card bearing a pile of Pollyannish rhyming couplets. I am just positive this guy is out there somewhere. And I MUST hunt him down. The absence of Prepdude has left a void, and boy oh boy am I trying to fill it. I feel like a puzzle with just one laaaaast piece missing, and so far the stray earring, poker chip and toy llama I have stuffed into the empty space are a terrible fit, but I never cease trying to cram them in there anyway and pretend it totally works. It does not.

Oh, I do keep picking up random items to try, though, yessss, I try.

I meet guys from so far out of town, it’s absurd to even entertain the idea. I meet chefs, middle managers, and guys who fib their way through the whole interaction. Oddly, I meet lots of bikers. I had gone through most of my life hardly knowing any, who knew there were so many motorcycles out there? Where y’all been hiding at, BikerDudes? They’re like seagulls on the remains of a Happy Meal. And I am clueless. And green. And honestly, kind of needy. Oh, this is a fabulous distraction from the things in my life I really should be working on. I’m not pursuing anything of real value, just searching for someone to paste over my mountain of denial. I have long-neglected personal dreams, and they sit like a forgotten model ship I had really wanted once, pieces still hopelessly trapped in their flashing, all dusty in the corner of the spare bedroom… remember me?? You were created to make me into something… but I ignore the nagging. I am making a classic mistake of trying to anchor my life to another person without finding myself first, without putting my own dreams first. I’m putting everything on hold to screw around with trying to find The Guy. But it’s my mistake to make, and dammit I’m gonna mistake the hell out of this.

Back to the circus.

I meet a guy who’s surprisingly the same height as me. (I’m a shrimp. Sawed off. Cue Randy Newman song.) Many women are hung up on height, and I have to say I really don’t give a shit. Actually, it is weird for me when a guy is too tall. There, I said it. I was once introduced to a guy who wanted to dance, him seated at a table with a group. Why, yes! I would love to dance and he stands up and OH NOOoooo… a record scratches to a halt in my brain because I am navel height to him and now it’s just awkward. I’ll be hugging private bits if we get close. Ew.

Anyway, back to Shawtydude, who is incredibly attractive, and has a confident, fun personality. We are having a surprisingly nice conversation, but we get on the topic of religion, and he turns into Jimmy Swaggart. Puh-raizze the Lawd and he is suddenly preaching at me all of the things I had already heard for years in the church. What I had mistaken for confidence was a big fat pile of arrogance. He’s practically shouting The Truth at me like I’m a fucking moron. In my head I see him standing on the table shaking his fist as I cower beneath him, SCREAMING AT ME IN ALL CAPS until I accept that he knows ohhh so much more than me!

I pitch my cards on the table.

I’m out.

Been there, done that, choked to death on the T-shirt.

It was dry. Do not recommend.

I’m hard at work, swiping, swiping, swiping. It’s a part time job. This is stupid, it’s taking up a jackass amount of time and after a few months, I’m burned out and ready to take a break from this revolving door of bullshit.

But wait!

Nice looking guy. Military service. Sense of humor, good background. I swipe right … and I’m suddenly chatting with GIDude. We have a miraculously decent conversation, and he invites me to meet at a pub.

I walk in, carefully made up, clothing curated to perfection… yeah, this really is too much damn work. He catches my eye,… ohhh, he is cute! He invites me to sit. We are on the corner of the bar and our knees touch. Neither one of us make an attempt to move. It’s nice, and there’s a clear attraction. This could be good!

Blinded by the white flash of initial chemistry, I miss a major red flag. He is instantly critical of… well, just about everything. What’s this stupid show at the bar. This bartender sucks. Why doesn’t this place have better wine? But he’s soooo cute! I feel enough connection to continue, so I tolerate the ranting. He seems a bit stuck in military life. My parents proudly served their country by playing golf nearly every day, so I really can’t relate, but I streeeeetch that tidbit of chemistry and paste it over his negativity and the fact that we have so little in common. I’m spreading cold butter over toast. It’s way too stiff and pulls and tears the bread to destruction, and is nowhere near melting, but DAMMIT I am determined to eat it!

As we go to leave, he invites me into his truck for a minute to warm up. Why, I thought you’d never ask. I’m too dense to know why he’s inviting me into the car. I reach up for the oh shit handles and hoist myself into the oversize cab of this beast of a pickup truck. Yeahh, could have predicted this is what he would drive. We are there chatting for a hot minute, then he reaches over to kiss me. Awkwardly, and consistent with this testosterone-built hulk of a machine, there is a massive console between us bearing the pile of junk that exists in most cars. He suddenly flips the entire console back HARD, and sunglasses, maps (wait, people still have paper maps?) water bottles, breath mints and whatever else was on there all yard-sale into the back seat in a forgotten mess. He kisses me… I am breathless. This must be The Guy. I am mentally picking out what my bridesmaids are going to wear when he pulls away to say good night. I breeze out filled with a sense of destiny, another fool sailing off to bed on a cloud of romantic fantasy.

But he doesn’t call back.

What? Why?? Didn’t he have fun? Weren’t we perfect.. okay well maybe not perfect, but we had chemistry…I mean, nothing in common but we can make it work… can’t we?? It doesn’t matter, because he never calls.

but wait, a month later, he does. And a month after that. I’m always available, always ready to go.

I’m being stupid.

This pasttime of many singles is called breadcrumbing, and I’m totally falling for it. He is stringing me along, feeding me juuuuust enough so I don’t stop responding. Along with most likely a whole string of other women. Every time he intermittently texts, I excitedly jump right back into this conversation of futility, back into his mire of negativity. One day I receive a text that simply said this sucks and I just start laughing, I don’t even look at the name. Of course, it’s GIDude.

I know. You’re reading this like Monica why are you wasting your time on this bonehead and, yes, that is what my steadily growing group of friends in Big Suburb wonders. Is it because I was lonely? Had lost so much? Was starting all over and desperate for communication, for affirmation? Who knows? All I know is I am following textbook Dumb Behaviour for Women, and I’m checking off every box like a dutiful clueless girl. Check, check, check. I’m hanging my hat on a guy who barely messages me, is undoubtedly dating a whole pool of women, and is so negative if I ever actually got to spend any significant time with him, I’d want to throw him out the window anyway. On the sixth story. On a cruise ship. And make sure it does the loonng sloooow turn to run over that complaining mouth twice.

I am lamenting all of this with a friend at a posh bar with overpriced wine that has me feeling my handbag wasn’t near expensive enough.

A businessman pulls up the stool next to mine…