Fear and Devotion, Part One

I still think closure is a thing, just not the whole thing. Not a cure-all. My newfound friendship with The Shy One didn’t stay tenable for long—that probably comes as a surprise to exactly no one. I loved being able to share a little bit of my life with him, to send him a sunrise, a ring around the moon, a short video of my work area looking just so. I loved the glimpses of his life that I got while we were avoiding almost all topics. It was such a lovely respite from missing him. I felt peaceful, hopeful, and complete in a way I hadn’t for such a long time.

But.

There was a moment last fall that I’ve always meant to write about. I was at brunch with Rainbow Pal (Not too long before a 5% difference on Palestine/Israel made Rainbow Pal and me feel unsafe to be around each other—a different heartbreak for a different day.) It was a rough week—I was just back from a family trip and my body was pretzeled with grief. The war had just started and everything felt brutal and mean.

Anhedonic, is the word. But joy prevailed: RP and I were talking about whether we think I’m poly or not (the eternal conundrum) and I said something like “I don’t know, when I was with (The Shy One) I didn’t want anyone else in the whole world, it was all about him.”

Saying that unlocked my heart, and a butterfly swarm of giggles came out. An unlatching, a relief. A bubble of assurance and self-knowledge so profound that I couldn’t stop laughing. RP said later that they loved seeing me come back to life—they helped me come back to life. I miss them so much.

But anyway, devotion.

Back to the present day, dating is just being a little bit scary. Talking to so many people, sometimes rematching by mistake and feeling like I might be stupid or mean, sometimes not matching because the person looks a little familiar, getting a “Hello?” when I hadn’t written back in like ten minutes, it can feel so depersonalizing, so disembodied.

Most app-suitors are kind-if-boring, but the ones that aren’t kinda add up in my body and heart. Accreting.

Closure Is a Thing, Part Three

I think this story is taking me forever to tell because, to use a Jungian word, it’s lost its numinousness. I’m no longer trying to unlock some mystery of universal meaning and self-definition, I’m just celebrating an important and beloved thing that happened. So let’s celebrate.

I had the idea that we could be mail-friends, The Shy One and me, get to know each other literally as slowly as possible, an antidote for the (DELICIOUS) sugar-rush of our first and second go-rounds. But then, the waiting. I’ve never really bought into his assertion that we were toxic, but if we were, that’s where the poison lived—the desperate and disbelieving feeling of Waiting to Hear Back from Him. I wanted no part of that, I felt trapped and stuck in reverse.

There was a Band-Aid to be ripped off, and letters, though SO lovely, were never going to help me do anything but create daydream romance, false hope, and resentment.

Luckily, WhatsApp CURATES your blocked numbers for you. Or maybe there are just way fewer numbers to sift through there. I reached out and asked if we could try a closure conversation, and he very kindly agreed.

As luck would have it, I got out early that Tuesday night, 5pm instead of 8, and I had already decided to watch Good Grief on Netflix. Oh Dan Levy, righter of wrongs, healer of hearts.

Almost as soon as the Shy One and I started texting things through, I felt a profound sensation—heat moving up my body, through my achy shoulder, and out—the hurt and pain and worry that had lived in my body all year just left, just healed and left. The bargaining. The racking my brain to figure out how to make The Thing come back—it was gone.

A major part of the relief was no longer being (or feeling) alone in the love and the loss. All year, friends and even some professionals had stayed skeptical that the Shy One had loved me back. I knew it he had, but having it confirmed made such a big difference. Heartbreaking, yes, I wish neither of us had ever had to hurt, but
I found a new confidence knowing it really was star-crossed, that there really was nothing either of us could have done to hang on.

It was sad, accepting things as they are, accepting that we wouldn’t be a match again, that he’ll never be the right one for me. But at the same time, he debunked some insecurities I’d been carrying. It made me feel at peace and better able to face the realities of dating life—a Wizard of Oz feeling, I’d had what I needed all along.

It was such a loving exchange. I cried good, productive tears all evening and into the night. It felt good to tell him how important he was, what the loss meant, even how begrudgingly grateful I am to have been set free.

The other night, I was texting with a cutie on Feeld who was like “Oh, I travel a lot so I would definitely need something casual.”

AND! Instead of pressing myself to be casual and just see what happens, I said, very kindly, that I’m romantic through and through so that wouldn’t work. Saying goodbye to that nice traveling guy gave me such an epiphany:

It’s an incredible gift and accomplishment to be ready for love! In a sea of “casual but consistent” low expectations, I’ve found so much of what I really want and, though I can’t be sure that Boyfriend Guy will ever come along, I’m proud of my open, adventurous heart. I’m so proud to love what I love, and to have so much room for more.

Closure Is a Thing, Part Two

 

(Last night I sent pretty lingerie pictures to the new person, Artist Boy, and he said I was beautiful. He really is doing such a good job, and definitely deserves all the paragraphs of his own.)

I had Covid over Christmas, so after a few careful hours of celebrating with BFF-Formerly-Sweetie, I was alone with my books and art biopics and gentle weed gummies. It was kind of great. I had to cancel a museum trip midweek, so I ordered some magic mushroom gummies through the mail. A little trip at home, these magical modern times.

The letter from The Shy One came the Friday after Christmas, the same day the mushroom gummies arrived. I put the package aside for the evening, then opened the letter. It was a Thank You card like I’d sent, the flowers on his much more modest than the floofy, sparkly peonies and such on the card I’d sent him. “Best wishes in 2024,” said the card, “I’m always rooting for you.”

The rooting for me is sweet, but I don’t love it. Instead of hoping I find true love, I’d always rather he were claiming me, then shouting it to the rooftops, exactly the thing he knew he wasn’t capable of.

The Shy One’s letter was both ordinary and profound. I won’t quote it, it’s just mine, but it said enough that I knew he missed me, I knew I’d been important to him. I cried and then put it in The God Box (Doesn’t everyone have one of these, a Box of Things to Be Worked Out Later by Unseen Forces? It’s an Artist’s Way thing.) so its presence wouldn’t be too overwhelming.

He mentioned texting in the letter, but I wasn’t ready to unblock—too close to those haunted, hunted “good mornings.”  The next day, I wrote back a very pretty New Years card, with fancy blue butterflies, even on the envelope.

Closure Is a Thing, I Think, Part One

I’ve read so many Dear Prudence columns downplaying the idea of closure, and I totally get that! Talking things through can feel like a cigarette after having been quit for years, a grim sense of starting all over. Or, it can feel like a liberating sensation and a fresh start. I might be leaning optimistic because I had a really good first date Saturday night (We snuggled up on the couch and actually WATCHED A movie! So cute!) but that is an adorable post for another day.

Sometimes, a letter at the end of the year can be a lovely way of letting things go, a last thanks/sorry/good wishes before joining a new year as strangers. That worked for me with Gilmore Guy, with This Charming Man—the letters were probably very self-indulgent but they helped me with the process of letting go.

This adventure started with a spell at Angel Face’s Solstice party—his spouse handed me a slip of paper and asked what I would like to let go. I clutched my fist and said “NOTHING.” But I wrote The Shy One’s name on there anyway and put it in the fire as instructed.

Shortly after, The Shy One visited in a dream. He was standing outside my classroom (In real life, I do not have a classroom) looking dapper and fatherly in a winter coat. We hugged hello/goodbye and his spirit felt…lighter. It made me so happy to think of him not full of worry or stress, just peaceful. Of course, I looked for him for the rest of the dream, but he was gone.

So, partly because I forever live in a romcom, I sent him a thank you card, right before Christmas. His reply came SO QUICK.

Merry Tinsel Shibari to You!

 

I wanted to write a whole thing about Elfness and darkness and pleasure and melancholy, but I got a cold for Christmas so my head is all fuzzy.

I'm profoundly grateful for self-tie nights, for this lavish way of loving myself. And I'm profoundly grateful to you, for rooting for me and for giving me a safe place to show off! Wishing you every magical thing, this week, next year, and forever.

End of a Flirt Era, a Zap of Loneliness

Even when I made the car appointment, I felt a little off, like I would be wrong to expect this trip to be another round of “if onlys” from Cute Car Place Guy. I felt off, ashamed, exposed—all emotions too dramatic for an errand. Driving in Monday morning, to get the oil change done and have them check the weird noise the heater’s (I mistyped “heart’s) making, I had such a sad feeling. Shame mixed with loss and sleepiness. The heater had been making a noise, but of course it wasn’t that morning!

It was the first time in years that I didn’t see Cute Car Place Guy smiling and beckoning me to pull in. He was nowhere to be seen and they assigned Valentine and me to the new guy, who was admittedly also cute. I felt like I’d been found out, like I’d gotten in trouble.

When CCPG DID appear, he called me by my given name, which is not the name I go by. Nothing like realizing I’m not a main character (Of course I’m not!) in this person’s life, or even a guest star! We got a chance to chat as we usually do, though. He always starts with “Staying out of trouble?” and of course I have been, a little too much lately!

It turns out, he has separated from his wife, the wife he’s been complaining to me about for years. Typing that makes me realize it’s actually pretty reasonable to feel a bunch of shame about this! I’ll change that to “remorse” but still! We’ve been hitting on each other for like five years of his marriage! Gross!

Then, it felt for the rest of my wait like he was avoiding me and like I should be avoiding him. I felt too loud and very not-charming. When I got the too-high bill, I wondered what was wrong with me that I’ve been having the car serviced at the dealership for almost ten years?! There’s a perfectly good and less-expensive place so much closer to home!

I’m kind of committed to the whole Boyfriend Material thing, and this guy is not, and could never be, the right one. The whole vibe is just…gone, and that’s probably a good thing.

It makes me sad. It was a kind of love, him looking after Valentine and me, being there with the discounts (Were they, though?) and almost always game to ruffle my feathers and buoy my spirits a little bit. Sometimes even bringing up the original ask-out/thank you note I sent him in…2019? Something like that?

Is it because of Luke Daines that I associate car-care with affection? Remember when he replaced like ALL the insides of Lorelai’s Jeep so she could keep the original body?

One of the cute guys at work offered to install a new heater motor for me (On top of all this, the sound still sounds!) so I’m currently squeeing and overthinking about that! The idea of handing him my keys fills me with fizzy forbidden bubbles.

Anyway, the end of a flirt era—what do I do with this? When a relationship ends, there’s a protocol, pictures to scroll through. A playlist I’ve been curating my whole life! I guess what I do is write this blog post and feel sad and lonely for a while.

I stand by my earlier-this week sanguine magnanimity, but for a few days I’m just kinda freaking out. I think the CCPG fantasy filled a bigger need than I thought it did. I think I held out a stronger hope that it was a slow-burn meet-cute than I wanted to admit to. I’m afraid there’s just NO ONE, that this dating slump will collide with age 50 this coming year and I will never touch a man again!

At the same time, letting go of what isn’t, recognizing where I really am and what I really want, makes room for the right things to happen. The open door of new possibility does feel a little bit good.

A Bad Dating Year is Not the Worst Thing

I’ve been studying awe lately. This is one of my favorite brain books of all time, and I haven’t even finished it yet!

So maybe that’s why the titular epiphany was easy to recognize when it came along. I’m sorry to be a Spotify commercial, but I love the Wrapped time of year so much. When I saw that I started listening to Frank Ocean’s cover of Moon River on February 6 and remembered that that’s the day The Shy One broke up with me, I was overwhelmed with giddy joy. With love. The beautiful absurdity of this year. It felt like my heart was laughing. It felt like a being-set-free.

After week-before-last’s bad review situation, I settled into it: There were highlights, but this was a bad year of dating. The past ten months especially have been full of grief, false starts, acting-outs, minor deceptions, and not-quite-right connections. Too many hookups in relationship-potential clothing. Deleted email drafts. More than one art project about grief. Setting a timer for ten minutes so I could moon safely over the Hidden Folder. It’s beautiful and ridiculous and I love it.

I rang in the New Year overjoyed, in a balloon-bopping collective effervescence with Rainbow Pal, singing to a sassy and sparkly cover of Dancing on My Own. When I left the club, WhatsApping across the ocean to the beautiful Shy Ones, a single golden firework popped over the parking lot. I felt like it was just for me. I kind of still do.

This year gave me so many gifts, not just the beautiful string of coconut-shell beads that well never look right on me. The wallpaper on my desktop is the lush pink and purple flowers I got from my Birthday Good Boy/Hookup. I’ve been building my collection of frilly things. My Duolingo has five languages going. I’m obsessed with Afrobeats, even though the genre gives me all the feelings. BECAUSE it does.

December is a relief, too full of crafts and gifts and next-year’s-goal-setting to worry too much about dating. There are three cute guys at work but I love myself and my job too much to hit on them. I’ll bring the car in before Christmas trips and flirt with the car place guy. I’ll visit the museum I was supposed to see last February. I’ll spend New Years with BFF or on my own or who knows where. Maybe I’ll just be starting a new puzzle.

Dear Shy One, dear Rainbow Pal, dear EVERYONE, I’m overflowing with love for you as if it were the first time and the last. You shine out of me permanently and I hope I can glimmer out of you sometimes too. We’re doing the thing, I’m so proud of us. We’re exquisitely and exhaustingly and delightfully alive.

Dearest, DEAREST 2023, thank you for all you’ve given me. Let’s type in some Rumi for the road:

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and
rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each
other”
doesn’t make any sense.
The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell
you.
Don’t go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across
the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.”