My friend Amy and I have been discussing 2020 goals and plans. Like you do. She has been urging me to get back in the dating saddle, set up my profile on Bumble.
But here’s the thing. The last time I went down that road, six weeks later I was in the emergency room having nearly died.
Amy: “I’m pretty sure dating is not why.”
She’s an actual medical doctor, so presumably she knows.
But, in my mind, these things are related, DATING & DEATH.
So. Okay. Let’s set aside the death part for a minute. Realistically, there are challenges. And because Amy is a good friend, we unpacked a few of these together.
time
My grandmother used to say that we have time for the things that are important to us. What is important to me right now is getting my writing platform firmly in place so I can send out the book proposal. And getting a new day job.
Chatting with my son, I said, “The big question for me is whether I can hold down a full time job AND invest 15-20 hours a week in my writing AND have a social life.”
(And by social life I meant *eyebrow waggle*, of course.)
To which he replied, “No. Pick two.”
And, related:
timing
When I was in divinity school, there was a fella who lived down the hallway from me. Top notch student. Obviously gay. I have terrible gaydar, and even I could tell.
One day several of us were setting up a study session, and he whipped out his planner. I was not, at that time, a planner person—I simply did the reading and the writing, et voila! So I was fascinated, and, rudely, peered at the week he had open.
Every minute of every day was filled with reading assignments, classes, his meals, etc. And on three days that week, in half-hour slots, I read women’s names and “coffee.”
I wondered what that was about until my pal Denise told me that he was essentially interviewing possible wives-slash-choir-directors to cover for him after ordination.
It made a kind of sense, but I was heartbroken.
So when I was thinking about the year ahead and joking that maybe dating could be a second-quarter goal, that young man drifted back from long-forgotten memory.
There is something coldly transactional about setting time for possible connections.
But let’s say there is time, and the timing is right. There’s this:
friendship
Historically, I have never encountered a random attractive stranger and thought to myself, “Oh. I’d like to have The Sex with him.” I notice beauty, of course, but I don’t go directly to Naked Town in my thinking-thoughts. That’s not how I’m wired.
I don’t categorize the male population, ages 47 to 63, in two camps, fuckable and not-so-much. In fact, no one is in the bangable category until I know him.
This makes dating difficult, because while I’m no prude, the (admittedly few) men I dated previously have seemed uninterested in friendship unless sex was, in fact, on the table. Like, if they don’t immediately sense I’m fuckable or DTF, don’t immediately want to bang, it’s a no go on being chums.
Jiminy Christmas. You’d think that by the time a person lived half a century, there would be a bit more there there.
Although, I guess if you are feeling the clock ticking, you would want to get right down to business.
Still. It depresses me.
the same page
Last summer, after not having been active on the site for a year, I logged in to my old nOthanKsCupid account to collect some data. I was not looking for a life partner or even a pal. Just data.
An earnest Southern gentleman reached out to me, and I accidentally replied to his message because he was intelligent and we seemed to have many things in common.
We went on a few outings. I enjoyed our correspondence and our talks.
He was a year from retirement, and it was almost immediately apparent that he was looking for someone to travel with in his golden years. My side sewer had just gone out, and I was distracted by my immediate plumbing crisis, which was so expensive I was fairly sure I would be working until I was 90 or dead.
I did not have the bandwidth to entertain fantasies about world travel with a nice man whose sausage fingers repulsed me.
Oops. That last part was uncharitable. I take that back.
ANYway. A few weeks in, he said, “early days or no, I think it’s fair to ask if we’re on the same page.”
And, dang it. I was aware of the cover of the first book in the series, but hadn’t picked it up yet. And he was well into the the third volume. So. No. Not even close to the same page.
I’m a slow reader.
love me stupid
Last Valentine’s day, a particular friend, whose life is a mess and keeps getting messier, sent me a poem.
Love me stupid.
Anis Mojgani
Love me terrible.
And when I am no
mountain but rather
a monsoon of imperfect
thunder love me. When
I am blue in my face
from swallowing myself
yet wearing my best heart
even if my best heart
is a century of hunger
an angry mule breathing
hard or perhaps even
hopeful. A small sun.
Little & bright.
And I could have. Would have. But it was not the right time.
Time. The coming year. Post-mortal peril, I feel an urgency about finishing up, doing good work.
Also loving and being loved despite the century of hunger—am I open? Willing? To love someone stupid? To be loved terrible?
Yes.
So.
I happened across a word search the other night, one of those ridiculous memes, the first three words you see represent your year, 2020. But it was in French: les trois premiers mots représententeront ton année 2020. Mine were amitié, famille, joie.
Friendship, family, joy.
That works for me.
