dirt bike kids

Dating is uncomfortable and emptying and I don’t think I like it. 

Okay, let me take a deep breath and try to work this through while I write. I’m laying in the spare bedroom of my grandmother’s condo in Toronto, Ontario and I’m exhausted.

Several things I’ve realize in the past three days: 

- I don’t really like this weird dating thing I’m doing, but it’s good because I’m being more realistic than romantic.
-My body needs me to get back into regular yoga practices. 
- Life is an uphill battle, get used to it and savor the strong and beautiful things in the world. 
-Being honest, bluntly honest, to men who ask you out is extremely invigorating.
-What you want in a moment that feels good, some times feels horrible later. 
-sleeping in a rental car isn’t good for your back. 
-My mother is a god damn saint. 
-My father and his relationship with his mother is a strong, motivational thing that helps him on a daily basis. 
-I am capable. Terrified, but yes, capable.
-Strike up conversations with strangers, they may tell you how they’ve admired you from a distance and that you made their day months ago when you complimented their hair, glasses, outfit, song choice, etc. 
-I’m “dating” a couple guys at once. 

I hate when a guy seems nice, attentive, and funny. When he asks you about your interests, and your career. When he and you share some common interests, like a favorite book, or you both rode dirt bikes as kids, So, you chat with him for a couple hours, then he asks for your number. You kindly agree, getting his as well. You make sure to correctly spell his name in your phone and have him spell yours. He even begins to call you by your full name, which you’re a bit of a sucker for. 

Then he texts you and it’s absolutely mind numbingly boring. Then you meet up again and it’s off to a rocky start, but then he begins again being attentive, to a degree, and the second date goes great. Another week of uneventful texting goes by where it’s you asking details, attempting banter, some bad puns and an overall tone of flirtation. Falls flat.

Another date, goes great. He’s the exact opposite of the dry back and forth on the phone. He watches your hands move when you talk and you catch him looking at your lips when your talking. He pulls out your seat, gently touches your arm. Makes direct eye contact. You are laughing, actually laughing. So, you let him walk you home. He tells you how great your smile is. How he really enjoys talking about our mutual degrees in English and your favorite books. That you’re interesting. And beautiful. He does the whole brush the hair out of your face and gently cradle your face. 

You spend 10.4 seconds flirting with your eyes, tilting your head a millimeter into his palm. You decide that yes you want to kiss him, and you lean in, just as he does. You forget that the texts are like squeezing water out of a rock. You kiss. It’s a solid effort. He’s not trying to shove his tongue down your throat, he’s not too aggressive with the teeth. You like how you fit together, he’s about 4 inches taller than you. He has nice hands. Your drink from each other for a few moments. Someone whistles from across the street so you chuckle at each other.

You decided to pull away as it’s getting great. You take a moment to kiss him once more, a goodbye and you say goodnight. You go to bed, wondering. 

You stop texting him with expectations of a grand textual archive of wit and cutting humor. Instead you tell  him how your day was, and asked how his was. You meet up a week later, it’s 1:30AM when you arrive back from a bonfire in a city near the Delaware State border. You text him you’re walking into the pub on your block and you enter to shouts of your name from a good friend, and then another. You turn down a game of pool and scan for him. Nothing. You check your phone. Nothing. You accept an offer of a whiskey from earlier mentioned good friend and you are about to settle into a seat when you see him out of the corner of your eye. He looks good. He’s handsome, but with 10 years, if he takes care of himself, will be striking in a way. He says hey and so do you, you hug. You remember his hands. He compliments that you smell like pine and a fire. You tell him that you threw branches and burrows into the flames while people mingled. You glance at the bar, your friend is just paying for your whiskey and hands it over. You introduce them. Shake hands etc. 

You sip your drink and he watches you. You chat. You’re smiling. He’s smiling. He wants to kiss you. You’re inclined to kiss him first. Instead, you smile again. You both leave at last call, your house is close and he walks you to the door. It’s been 20 minutes. You want to come up for a bit? You hear yourself asking. 

You head upstairs and he immediately compliments your apartment, you sit on the couch and unlace the boots you’d been wearing all day. You watch him walk over to your bed and look at your bookshelf. He takes off his shoes and walks on the bed to see them all. You kind of like that he’s comfortable, but you’re not sure. He grabs a book and lays down on the bed. 

You think about changing out of your sap covered jeans. Instead you walk over and lay next to him. You read passages aloud to each other. You like his voice, you think. You interrupt him to comment. Then as he picks back up, you say “hold on one more thing” and you kiss him soft, slow, then lean back to you side of the bed as he watches your mouth. He goes back to reading, then you read to him. 

He leaves an hour later after a make out session and some more compliments, laughs and reading. You shared a comfortable sort of companionship.  

He kisses you goodbye. 

You walk up and fall into bed after stripping down to your blouse and underwear. Your pillow smells like him. You keep thinking about how dry he is when you text him. 

Then you think of the date you had last week with the future politician with the prettier face than you, and the other one you turned down with that guy who was your friend until he made a move, and surprised you. You think about the 3 guys you’ve knocked off the roster in the past 3 months because you’re better friends, or you don’t like their attitude, or how persistent and intrusive they are. Then you think about the guy you made plans with for the week after next. You laugh at how blunt you were with the guy who asks you what your “situation was” and how you honestly told him:

I’m dating. Trying to shut down that part of me that is a pessimist, or the utterly unstoppably distractingly romantic part of me and get to know people without rash judgements on small things.

He laughs and says he’s fresh out of a relationship and that you seem pretty amazing and confident and it would be really great to get to know as friends.

You make plans to get together and he leaves. You feel oddly satisfied, but still. 

I hate dating. I don’t even want to call it dating. It’s like an unscripted episode of the bachelorette in my head, but with a considerable less amount of makeup, cameras and staged romantic moments. It’s better than how my last romance started, or lingered, or left parts of me burnt. It’s better than the slightly emotionally neglectful way I came to date my ex two years ago. I can’t expected another human to be the perfect love interest, part of being the best possible me is learning to be kind, and approachable, most importantly to be happy alone, or being the star of my own dating show, or both.

Honestly, it all comes down to the fact I hate it because I wish it was just me and one person that tried - with respect and understanding- to fulfill all my romantic, social, and intimate needs, and in turn he felt like I tried my hardest to fulfill all his, then together we conquer our worlds together and separately, a well oiled machine. 

In other news I need to tell him that we suck at texting, or I need to stop texting him. 

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