My Actual Dating Life

If this is my reality, that's okay.
If this is my reality, that’s okay.

This isn’t the first time I’ve devoted an entire blog entry to the topic at large, and I’m sure as shit it won’t be the last. The people in my life seem to like me and as a result I am constantly showered with the sentiment of; “But you’re so great! I don’t understand why you’re single!” And I get it. The combination of my late on-set adult acne, my yappy Chihuahua, and my general disinterest in world affairs and politics make me a suitable and desirable companion for any one person. But there are things in life we don’t understand, but just are. Like for instance; I don’t get New Yorker cartoons, Obamacare, or Crossfit but these things all exist and still the world keeps turning.

The humorous part is, I do not spend an adequate amount of time singing the “Woe is me, I’m tragically single” song – nor do I vent about it to my friends ‘Sex & the City’ style over brunch. Mostly at brunch I’m very busy drinking Bloody Mary’s because I’m really, really hung-over.  Don’t get me wrong, some nights when I’m star-fished in my bed, I do wish someone was there to take up my space and force me to sleep in the crack between where my bed is pushed up against my wall. I do in fact want to find love, but I’m not losing sleep over it (pun intended).

The last girl who messaged me on OkCupid was a pizza delivery driver and the one before that went by the username “CrystalBaller” and asked me if I wanted to burn patchouli “philosophize” with her. Yes people, this is my actual life and dating options. The worst part is I would have potentially messaged CrytsalBaller back, had she looked less like Eminem’s female doppelganger. I draw the line at spiritual gangsters. That’s the thing, I have a tendency to attract the abnormal. Now, I’m not without my quirks – but really these days, I lead a pretty normal life. I just want to meet a nice girl, cook her dinner, and then peruse weird Netflix subcategories with her. Yeah, that’s right. I want a girl on the other side of my jumbo-sized Cheeto’s bag and sometimes when we’re both diving deep for a little cheese curl action, our hands will brush in the bag and we’ll look at each other and smile.

We’ll both cry when we watch the ‘Saved by the Bell’ episode where Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski break up and when I tell her my ultimate life dream is to visit the Mos Eisley Cantina on the planet Tatooine, she totally won’t look at me like I’m crazy. In the meantime I will continue to send my perceived vibe of normalcy that apparently is thrown astray once it hits the stratosphere and is repurposed as freak-ass pheromones that attract some of the gems I have been graced with romantically entertaining over the last year of my life.

seinI can be a bit Jerry Seinfield-esque when it comes to dating, finding the most ridiculous reasons to end relationships that are comparable to dumping someone for their man-hands, for eating their peas one pea at a time, for being a low talker, or for believing that someone got gonorrhea from wearing a bathing suit and sitting on a tractor. I once broke up with a girl and only had this to say in defending myself: “She said she could listen to Michael Bublé’s Christmas Album any time of year and she thought Wayne Brady was funny.”

There was the girl after that whom I initially liked but then sat me down and tried to DTR after three dates. The best defining I could do at that point in time was that we’d been on three dates and while it might not take that long to get in my pants, it certainly took more to obtain girlfriend status.

Then I got involved in my first, and by saying “first” it precedes that there have been others that have followed, polyamorous relationship. I was never really sure how I felt about polyamory, at the time I met this girl I was dating multiple people and didn’t have much else going on – plus I am pretty open-minded and it is the 21st century; so I figured hey I got this. I’m not sure if I learned a lesson but this particular partner taught me how to “Om” and once balanced my chakras with crystal healing that involved her saying “I’m going to fill your crotch up with rocks,” which was exponentially less sexier than it sounds.

Finally after almost a year of dating people who I can only imagine materialized from somewhere inside the depths of the Bermuda Triangle, I met a good one. She was beautiful, and enigmatic, and completely on par. It seemed too good to be true, which triggered my ultimate fear – that when things are too good to be true, that something will indubitably go wrong. Since we were so good at communicating our anxieties as well as hopes and dreams, I shared this with her. She assured me that wouldn’t happen. And then she moved to Fiji. Not like the California Coast, or even the East Coast– but clear across the side of the motherfucking world. Dating? Clearly I’m nailing it.

I could sit and tell you that I’m lonely, that I’m sad and that I need Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte to talk me off a hypothetical ledge but really; I’m totally copacetic being single. I’m hardly ever alone, unless by choice, and I take strength in my solitude.  I’m allowed to have questionable hygiene, there’s nobody in my house getting in my way, and if I have a night where I don’t want to do anything at all? I don’t do anything at all. I can dance without judgment, make out as much as I want, and never worry that I’m settling. I hate to sound like a farmer, but I’ve got wild oats to sow.

On the bright side, my stories of atrocious dating (trust me, we haven’t even touched the tip of the iceberg) make for great dinner party conversation, I can binge watch entire Netflix series without waiting for someone else to catch up, I can fart whenever and wherever I please (like I would hold back anyways), and I know for a fact that Beyonce wrote her ballad “Single Ladies” just for me. Because we’re all wearing Sasha Fierce metal gloves on the inside. While I appreciate your concerns, please know I’m okay. The highlight of my week last week was shaving my cat’s outdoor summer mange into a lion cut, and I swear that’s enough for me.


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