I cannot fling. I talk the talk but I can’t walk the walk. My libido vanishes the moment I realize there’s nothing more than a pretty face. HOW OLD-FASHIONED OF ME!
I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to invest time in someone I can’t imagine being with. It’s as simple as the difference between my attraction to Brett Lawrie vs. Mark Buehrle. Having dat thickity-thick fineness is fun for looking (Brett Lawrie), and sometimes touching (Brett Lawrie’s bampsy), but I need someone I want to touch and talk to (Mark Buehrle). I’ve made valiant efforts to override this ‘fling-having flaw’ but if you’re not into me and what any of this could become, then my nether regions are as good as a fire starting kit.
I once made a joke about my future husband; he’s probably already following me on Twitter. BUT I DON’T THINK IT’S A JOKE ANYMORE. Here’s how men approach me (because it’s not IRL, I will tell you that much):
1) I change my profile photo on any of the social media platforms, private messages abound.
2) I comment on a friend’s post/a friend RTs a tweet – abundance of new followers & then the direct messages begin.
3) In my fantasies. They only approach me in my fantasies.
Das it. This is what dating is like in 2014, darlings. So to all my friends in relationships who love to live vicariously through my life or say “the grass is greener,” it ain’t. Trust in me, it is not. I’d love to see you break up with your man to be single again in these dark and desolate times. Please date in this current year, I beg of you. That’s right, you would never do that because despite his dutty, lazy and sometimes forgetful ways – you wouldn’t change things for the world. He’s your partner, his baggage is manageable and well, everything I’m describing sounds bleak. You thought it was bad when you were still in the game – it’s exponentially worse.
There are even less men now. All those dudes who wouldn’t grow up, still haven’t matured and there’s just more of them. They are boys who want flings and we know how I feel about those already. They have the appendage I crave but I can’t, in good conscience, call them ‘men.’ Why do I have to tippy-tap-toe around my feelings for you in fear it will drive you away. I mean…let’s get the realest with this right now. I BETTAH WANT TO GET SERIOUS WITH YOU OR WHAT’S THE POINT OF MY FACE SEEING YOUR FACE? I’m not meeting up with you to “hang out” or pass time. I have friends and the Internet for that mess. Dating shouldn’t be a mindf*ck, it should be easy and natural. I don’t care what they say, there should be no gameplay when it comes this. Both sides need to be honest and sincere. There’s zero chance, at my current age, that I’m going out with someone I’m not attracted to in all ways. His humour, his forearm and his choice of playlist equate to me envisioning them jeans on the floor. Attraction is the fundamental difference between dating and every other mundane thing we do during the day. We are grown ups and knowing what we want doesn’t mean I expect you to hit up Zales before our first date to pop the question.
Dating is the necessary evil for two people to connect and see if there’s romantic chemistry. We KNOW this. When I decide to grace you with my presence, a million questions are firing through my brain at the exact same time: could I love you, be spontaneous with you, share a mortgage with you? Am I okay with our kid getting your ears, would I enjoy buying your clothes, can I look at your sleeping face for the next 50 f*cking years? Dating for grown-ups is a question pyramid with: “Do I see a future with you?” at the apex. Everything else is fluff. And to those wanting fluff, have at it; I’m not knocking you. But don’t make me feel ways about the things I want when I tell you off the bat. Fluffers need to stick together and leave those of us wanting more alone. I implore you single men and women to get over this ‘moving too fast’ garbage right now. There is no fast – there’s feeling right and feeling nothing at all.
This was supposed to be my Spring/Summer of sexual freedom, guys. I was finally going to embrace this lifestyle I missed out on because I was grasping for meaningful relationships instead of rolling in all the hay. I would have a local watering hole where I’d partake in patio-sangrias and ciders. I’d be living out loud for male patrons to take notice and realize I’m so happy-go-lucky and magnetic; they must be part of it. Their luck could not be so good that I was single. Then Cute Patio Guy would approach and whisk me away for a passionate night when I tell him I am, indeed, available. WHY NOT?!
I would roam the evening city streets looking for my food truck-dinner. A cute vendor offers me his last batch of fries. We chat about nothing as he takes his time getting the fries prepared. I find myself disappointed when he hands my order over with a “goodnight” and a little wave. Walking away, inhaling the fries through a frown (as I do), I find my receipt under the fry wrapper. There’s a note on it from Cute Vendor with a time, his address and buzzer code. IMAGINE?!
Hours would be spent wearing whispers of denim shorts at Trinity Bellwoods around all the cute park guys. Cute Park Guy’s dog would be playing off leash and steal so much of my charcuterie picnic tray for one. I wouldn’t even be mad though because I love dogs. Cute Park Guy and I would play fetch with CPG’s four-legged best friend while drinking copious amounts of park wine before we frolic into the forest for a bump and grind. I WISH!
This is the problem with me, folks. I’d want each of those guys to be my boyfriend. I couldn’t just have the fun and walk away. These would all be the men I would want to get to know. But what I want makes zero difference if it’s not reciprocated. And it’s never reciprocated.
Everything’s a movie in my head. I’m basically running on Nora Ephron batteries and it’s damn exhausting. I’m not based in reality and it would be okay if the result wasn’t the depression that ‘queezed my innards daily worrying about my nonsense situation I have no control over. It’s taken me awhile to realize why I’m labelled with “Intimidator” across my forehead. The rare time I’ve met someone willing to actually have a back-and-forth with me, I sound pretty put together on paper: own my home, wonderful career, pay all of my bills, independent traveller, fashion conscious, etc. I don’t NEED anyone. Whether men want to admit it or not, whether they know it or not, they are less turned on by women who already have it together. They don’t know where they’ll fit in, why I need to be taken care of, what their purpose would be. It’s hard, I know it. I have nothing against this mindset. Gender roles, feminism, blah blah, blah. Yeah, I get it. I WANT to be taken care of and I WANT to take care of someone. I become insta-domestic the second I’m given the opportunity. My home is impeccable, my culinary skills go through the roof, I become a registered masseuse, I make sure I look like a dime times two when we’re out (I want to make the world jealous of you), I give gifts… I do all of these things because it makes me feel good to make them feel good. And in a perfect world, it would be reciprocated. BUT ALAS…this is not the case. Am I in the wrong? Maybe. Do I care? No. It’s what I’m going to do.
Kicking a 12 year online dating habit was easier than anticipated (yay me!), but now what? Your “traditional” is my “experimental.” I’m just out here…feeling faded and forgotten in the breeze.