Last night, I went on a date with a man who did not ask me a single question all night. By the end of the date, I could tell you all about his parents’ divorce, the death of his first dog, and a bar fight in his early twenties that injured his rotator cuff. He could not tell you what I do for a living. How many kids I have. There’s not a basic fact about me he’d be able to answer a trivia question on.
It wasn’t just poor social skills. At one point, I tried to interject with a silly little anecdote about being SEVERELY hungover on a ferry to Morocco, courtesy of some mad scientist sangria the night before. He began watching the TV at the bar across the room.
Fine, fine. We’re not a match.
But what was wild was that, at the end of the night, he mentioned getting together again. WHAT. And then texted later about cuddling on the sofa watching shows. Needless to say, that won’t be happening. I cannot imagine a lonelier scenario than spending even more time with someone who has no interest in knowing me.
I’m not chasing being chosen. I mean, I made that mistake in my younger days and look where it got me. I know myself, and what’s on offer, and I’m not like, OH PLEASE LET ME LOVE YOU.
The last entanglement I had was with a man I met at a funeral. And y’all, if that says anything about the doomed nature of that romance. I’m laughing as I type this because it was, in many aspects, a satisfying sort of love. Until it wasn’t. There were inherent challenges (like distance), but at least that guy knew what he had. We’ll talk about him later.
The other day, a man I met online asked me what I was looking for. I said, “Magic.”
I’m pretty great. You don’t even have to agree! Because I’m not looking for you to affirm it! I’m intelligent, I’m funny, really truly kind, supportive. Considerate. Professionally accomplished and annoyingly good at most things I try. I’m conventionally attractive and I take really good care of my body. I am so in tune with the energy of people around me that I know what they need before they even think to ask for it. I can know that your mood has shifted from eight hundred miles away (whether you or I like it or not). I’m ACTUAL magic. And I don’t want anyone who isn’t fucking dazzled by it. In turn, I want to be obsessed. Bordering on unhealthily so. I mean, life is short. Living in the half ways are not for me.
It really is impossible to breadcrumb a girl who knows she’s a snack.
