Coming to the conclusion that I'm no better than Taylor Swift.
Emotional sine wave. Blushing and hopeful one minute, then Cure-level mascara bleeding down my ugly-cry face.
I fall for it every time. Inexorably intoxicatingly all-in way too soon. As early as the second date, especially when said date involves not just picking me up at LAX (an annoying and inconveniently-located airport at baseline) but actually parking your car and getting out to surprise me at the bottom of an escalator in an almost Sixteen Candles, "who me?" kind of magical moment. Or if you're willing to stand in a two-hour line for a second date in a torrential downpour to see an exhibit you've already seen, just to re-experience it with me. I mean that must be love right? Not just me being a psycho for imagining what our children would look like?
Not that I am enamored with all potential dates. I know if I'm not interested pretty quickly. Full disclosure that I have half-heartedly said "sure" just to go ice skating. Or see a secret SAG movie-screening. Or not be alone at the prom. I have walked on the beach in the moonlight with someone knowing it wouldn't amount to more than an interesting conversation and sandy toes. I don't swoon at every overtly romantic gesture; the fact that I shy away from most compliments and hugs from people I know means I definitely am not going to be comfortable with a private piano performance or an expensive birthday gift from someone I'm not in to.
Hence when I meet someone good, I go overboard. I do my internet "fact-checking" to look for warning signs (cigarettes, children, overly-attractive girl "friends") then I dive in head first. With a knack for not keeping anything to myself, I gush ill-advisedly to friends, grandmothers, co-workers, anyone who will listen, that this guy is special. A gem. Not just the basics of being gainfully employed and consistently sheltered, the upgraded package that includes adorable personality, shared interests and potentially a full head of hair. Someone with that joie de vivre, that je ne sais quoi. Someone whose enthusiasm appears to match mine. Someone who wants to text emojis back and forth all day.
Until they don't.
And then I am destroyed. Convinced I will be alone forever. That my mom should give up on any grand-kids from me. That even freezing my eggs is an exercise in futility.
My heart is constantly broken; it's a wonder it's ever able to regenerate. What's more that it can trick itself into palpitating again after so many holes and regrets.
I cannot even get off the roller coaster ride for very long. Before Christmas I quit Tinder (and the even lamer in-app app Suitr) only to rejoin Match less than two weeks later after a particularly life-sucking stretch of call. And then I *had* to reboot Tinder for a totally legitimate reason.
So I guess I'm back to net zero. Waiting for the next boom and bust.
Emotional sine wave. Blushing and hopeful one minute, then Cure-level mascara bleeding down my ugly-cry face.
I fall for it every time. Inexorably intoxicatingly all-in way too soon. As early as the second date, especially when said date involves not just picking me up at LAX (an annoying and inconveniently-located airport at baseline) but actually parking your car and getting out to surprise me at the bottom of an escalator in an almost Sixteen Candles, "who me?" kind of magical moment. Or if you're willing to stand in a two-hour line for a second date in a torrential downpour to see an exhibit you've already seen, just to re-experience it with me. I mean that must be love right? Not just me being a psycho for imagining what our children would look like?
Not that I am enamored with all potential dates. I know if I'm not interested pretty quickly. Full disclosure that I have half-heartedly said "sure" just to go ice skating. Or see a secret SAG movie-screening. Or not be alone at the prom. I have walked on the beach in the moonlight with someone knowing it wouldn't amount to more than an interesting conversation and sandy toes. I don't swoon at every overtly romantic gesture; the fact that I shy away from most compliments and hugs from people I know means I definitely am not going to be comfortable with a private piano performance or an expensive birthday gift from someone I'm not in to.
Hence when I meet someone good, I go overboard. I do my internet "fact-checking" to look for warning signs (cigarettes, children, overly-attractive girl "friends") then I dive in head first. With a knack for not keeping anything to myself, I gush ill-advisedly to friends, grandmothers, co-workers, anyone who will listen, that this guy is special. A gem. Not just the basics of being gainfully employed and consistently sheltered, the upgraded package that includes adorable personality, shared interests and potentially a full head of hair. Someone with that joie de vivre, that je ne sais quoi. Someone whose enthusiasm appears to match mine. Someone who wants to text emojis back and forth all day.
Until they don't.
And then I am destroyed. Convinced I will be alone forever. That my mom should give up on any grand-kids from me. That even freezing my eggs is an exercise in futility.
My heart is constantly broken; it's a wonder it's ever able to regenerate. What's more that it can trick itself into palpitating again after so many holes and regrets.
I cannot even get off the roller coaster ride for very long. Before Christmas I quit Tinder (and the even lamer in-app app Suitr) only to rejoin Match less than two weeks later after a particularly life-sucking stretch of call. And then I *had* to reboot Tinder for a totally legitimate reason.
So I guess I'm back to net zero. Waiting for the next boom and bust.
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