I’m awful.
I did something bad. Kind of. Well, maybe…
I don’t know, you be the judge. It was a bit sneaky, though.
I have a plan.
I’ve been so busy with my Big Three, I’ve had little time for anything else, and by the time I’m back home at night, I mull over the day with a cup of chamomile tea and absolutely crash into some of the most rewarding sleep I’ve ever had. Having a purpose turns out to be the best drug ever, and I’m higher than a pothead at Burning Man.
Have I told you about my bed? I bought the frame and mattress on a Black Friday whim, a knock-off of the Tempur-Pedic Cloud I had when I was married. Only I like this one even better, it’s actually a bit softer. You kind of sink into this type of mattress, no springs to poke my bony shoulders. No, they’re not my sponsor, but maybe they should be. Lately, it seems all the angels in Heaven have been ushering me off to peaceful slumber in this delightful cocoon. A pink cloud of thick comforter and enough pillows to be a total pain in the ass to put back together in the morning, it is my creation, and I love climbing in by myself each night.
Wait, when did that happen?
Even now, I’m having trouble putting my finger on it. At some point, I stopped fretting about going to bed alone. And started really enjoying it.
Actually, I love it. It’s the perfect postscript to the end of each packed day.
An average day of being me is kinda like this:
-Roll out of bed and journal, or write event cards for a future book.
-Go to the gym or run outside.
-Go to work, and make women beautiful.
-Either practice by myself, go to rehearsal or have a performance, or go out with friends or increasingly, by myself. I have discovered the fun of chatting with whomever happens to be sitting next to me, it’s always an adventure, whether it’s Businessman Joe, Construction Guy Carl, or even Drunk Pete. Or Drunk Diane, gender doesn’t matter when it comes to colorful characters.
-Come home and crash in the Pink Cloud, till I wake up for another adventure with the Big Three Purposes that have become my life.
Did you see a place in there where a date with some Maybe guy would win out over the other cool shit I’m doing? Casual dating has become a limp handshake with a clammy dead-fish appendage, and I don’t like it anymore.
I don’t WANT it anymore.
Enter the Bad Girl.
The bright light of clarity on this casual-dating no-commitment situation that isn’t going anywhere has started to blind me. It’s as prominent as the manbun on your barista. Captain Obvious is so close his cape is whipping me in the face, and I just can’t deny it any longer. This is absolutely not working for me. I am the last one to criticize casual dating, I have learned a ton about myself and what I want by dating everyone but the kitchen sink…yet I sense the leaves falling, the chill of the wind, the sense that this season of my life is about to come to a conclusion. It’s time to put away my sandals, get out the sweaters, and let these freaking falling leaves die.
I can’t identify exactly when, but there was a milestone I passed where I knew I no longer wanted to waste time on Lastdude. The words of my coach regarding the time being wasted on a Maybe was now galvanized into an iron sign imprinted on my inner eyelids and I just can’t unsee it, and suddenly this dating business is a distraction from my goals, my purpose, my destiny.
My coach was absolutely correct about this hindering my direction. One needs to be mighty careful about The Other, because once you have a Significant Other, you have to consider where they’re headed, what their expectations are, and what they might think about your messy but beloved Jackson Pollock print. They will bring their own direction and idiosyncrasies to the table, and now you have to have the discussion about where the couch should go and whether he’s willing to have sushi for dinner yet again. You’ll also have to fess up about your secret love for eating sardines straight from the can and binge-watching Hoarders.
As all of these changes have taken place, and with every single Dude, I have been gradually morphing into a new being. Forged of an alloy of experiences, a solid and much stronger individual, no longer so easily swayed. I’m going to keep the Pollock and the sushi, thank you very much.
Direction solidified, I am repeating to myself who I am and what I want daily. There is a specific trajectory I need to stay on to get what I want. But there’s one last thread, a hindrance, a distraction, one final string tethering this hot air balloon, preventing its rise to the heavens.
I don’t have time for Lastdude anymore.
I don’t want him.
I don’t want anyone. No more Dudes.
The twin blades of the scissor are gleaming, the final tool of destruction, my means to freedom.
I’m going to cut the string.
So what’s the bad thing I did?
I set him up.
I knew if I played this right, he would practically break up with me.
Lastdude is sweet, but he’s horribly unreliable. He doesn’t own an alarm clock (I know!) and seldom gets up before the afternoon. I’ve been making all the plans. It’s too easy.
I concoct this final plan in my mean little head.
I’m so totally irritated with his inability to adhere to any schedule that the plan almost writes itself. And one beautiful Sunday, I set the trap.
I’m busy the next few days, how about if we do dinner on Wednesday? Seven o’clock? Sounds great! We will meet at one of our very favorite restaurants. We set the plans and chat a bit longer, but I hang up with a smirk. The trap is perfect. All I have to do is not give him the bunch of usual reminders, are you up? Are you coming? Do we still have plans??
Monday…Tuesday… Wednesday… five…six…seven… 7:05…7:10…7:15…
7:20 that Wednesday, I walked away a free woman.
I hold the phone in my hand…ring, ring, riiiing… hello?
“Where the hell are you? We had plans.”
“Well, I didn’t hear from you, so I assumed…”
“I never canceled them.”
“Uhhhhm…”
…and I use this as the launching pad for the difficult conversation about why I am no longer going to be dating him. I tell him that we are incompatible timewise, him generally not even setting an alarm while I like to control where my time goes and haven’t been without an alarm clock since 1978, him showering every couple of days while I insist upon smelling like soap and French perfume, me, as usual, putting in all of the time and effort whilst he just enjoys the free company. I’m done with even this last little bit of romantic bullshit.
I conclude the conversation by addressing the vast amounts of time he spent lamenting his lost love. Brandy this, Brandy that. It was the Marcia, Marcia, Marcia of the relationship, he just could not get Brandy out of his head, and therefore she invaded our communication, a relentless cockroach repeatedly skootching its ugly brown body across our conversations. I had mentioned that he wasn’t into me the way he seemed to have been into Brandy, but he would just say “I don’t know if I’ll ever love anyone like I loved Brandy.”
Yeah.
Well, today I finally found my balls and informed him that I’m not interested in the silver medal. It’s fucking gold, or I go home.
Goodbye, Lastdude.
And hello, life!
I click end on the phone, and cuddle into my Pink Cloud.
Alone.
But this time, it’s completely different.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 