It’s been a long time since I’ve dipped my toes into the dating pool. After a million billion bad experiences I just kind of hung it up. I packed myself away and decided some people are meant to be alone. And I was okay with being that person. I really was. I have good friends that adore me, family that loves me, and that was going to be enough. I would make it enough.
But then 2015 rolled around and I decided I was going to live out loud. I was going to stop convincing myself that nothing was enough. So at the end of January I placed a personal ad, and a Young Chef in Wisconsin answered it, and he was smitten. So was I.
We texted for two months straight. Morning, noon, and night. We shared our likes, dislikes, our histories, and our hopes for the future. We shared a million selfies, some of them sexy. We even had a few fights. A few doozies. He was angry because I had trust issues. I was angry because he refused to meet me for so long. But we seemed to come through it on the other side.
It’s been a sweet and charming two months. A relationship in the earliest stages considering we hadn’t even met. But I was hopeful. So hopeful that I even began to mention him in passing on I Will Dare. I don’t talk about relationships a lot here. Partly because I always end up looking foolish when it all slips through my fingers. Partly because a long time ago I had a few readers who overstepped their bounds. But, you know. . .
Oh, fuck it, the Young Chef made me giddy and hopeful. I would read his words and parts of my heart started to beat again — all those parts that I had packed away a long time ago they were alive and they were singing. My face hurt from smiling so much.
And because I’m not quite a total fool. I was a little wary. I questioned his motives, his intentions, what he wanted. But he calmly reassured me, and I fucking fell for it.
Today we were supposed to meet. Finally, after two months of textual courting we were going to meet. 4 p.m. was the witching hour.
And then. . . well, you can see the text above with your own eyes.
Of course he’s already blocked my number so I will get no closure, even though I tried.
Oh Darling Ones, I am fucking wrecked. I feel like such a stupid old fool. I’m forty-two, I should know better by now. I am sad and I am crying, and I should take the advice I gave Ryan Adams, and not blog about it. But here I am, blogging about it. This is the very essence of 2004 blogging. All hot take and messy, sticky emotion that doesn’t make a lot of sense.
Expect plenty of emo bullshit in the next 24 to 48 hours. You’ve been warned.