So, I’ve been seeing someone for a little over three weeks now. It is awesome.
I haven’t dated significantly since 2006, so this is a big deal.
Historically, the three-four week mark is make-it or break-it time.
Either I get an apologetic “it’s-not-you, it’s-me… but-really-it’s-you”/ “You’re a cool girl, but I’m just not [insert your own excuse: feeling this/ready for a relationship/ not over my ex], but I’d still like to [have a casual sexual relationship with you/ get sporadic oral sex from you/see you again, but please don’t expect to meet my friends, family, or– expect anything else, really]. I hope we can be ‘friends’ [translation: hook up, occasionally, OR/I’ve found someone way hotter & all-around better. But I don’t want to be ‘that guy’]” email/text message/voicemail– OR—
I find myself getting into a relationship. Or heading that direction, anyway.
Last time I seriously dated anybody, I was coming off a highly promiscuous & neurotic time in my life. Right now, I’m in an opposite place (I might as well have been cloistered in a nunnery for the last two years & I’ve lost most of my neuroses– I know what I want & everything else can suck it)– which is a sweet relief. A soul-crushing marriage & liberating divorce can really reset priorities.
I still feel kind of gross. I got 60 bonus pounds out of my divorce. I’d have preferred the Crate & Barrel every day dishes & cutlery, but whatever. I’m making changes. I may be heavier than ever before, but I also work my ass off in the gym & am working hard to become a runner… a “Geek in Running Shoes“, if you will. Honestly, I have a really hard time finding myself attractive– let alone believing that someone else might find me aesthetically appealing. Then again, I also think less of anybody who doesn’t find me badass-awesome & attractive. Those who do, I think, show good taste & clearly exhibit exceptional imagination.
… I suppose I’m still a little neurotic. It’s all:
“Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret”
inside my head.
Part of me is squealing with delight like a 12-year old girl, the other part is holding my breath, waiting for the sick thud of disappointment… would it be an awkward dumping over dinner? I can handle it. BRING IT, I say.
… but I’d rather continue to squeal like a 12-year old, if it’s all the same to you. I’m having FUN!
Am fairly certain that year 30 will be among the best in my life… so far.
NOTE: I’ve published without editing. You’ve been warned.