I really don’t like writing about dating and relationships.
Carrie Bradshaw did a fairly effective job (aside from the way she played Aidan, but I digress) and I do not enjoy painting myself into such a small box. Life is so much more than awkward silence and cautious optimism.
But now? I’m tired.
Here is a highlight reel of what I have experienced in the past six months:
--Mr. Radio Silence: we’d been “talking” for more than a year. I asked him where this was going; he told me he had feelings for me. I told him I wanted more than feelings—I wanted a relationship. In return, he said absolutely nothing.
--Mr. Too Gorgeous: Told me I was too tall for him to date; that it would be degrading for him to be seen with me. Furthermore, he told me body was “sort of gross,” but he would totally be willing to sleep with me if I kept a shirt on.
--Mr. Long-Distance: Cussed me out because I wasn’t gung-ho to hear from him after four months of hearing nothing. Told me no one would ever love me.
--Mr. Magoo: Started talking and added me on FB. It took five seconds to see he was in a relationship with someone that, at least according to FB, had just been established the week prior. When I asked him about it, he just kept asking me if I saw it on his page.
--Mr. Me, Myself and I: I told him my grandma died. He berated me for not asking how his day was.
--Mr. Must Be Out Of His Mind: Thought I’d be thrilled to be his mistress.
I don’t expect anyone’s sympathy. In each of these situations, I take my share of responsibility for what I allowed and, in some cases, what I said or did. I’m not here to bash them or all men. These men may in fact be great partners for someone else. And though this may shock my FBRs, I’m not really here to encourage today.
I’m just tired.
Now, I’ll be alright. I have an amazing support system and a relationship with God that sustains me even in the lowest, darkest moments. Still, I wonder (and worry) about everyone else out there who may not have that…’cause if you think this is just a problem I have, you would be sadly mistaken.
Why do we treat each other this way?
I have connected with people—some I know, some I don’t—who have even more horrifying tales than what I’ve shared. We have become a world where people are objectified and objects are personified. We are nothing more than a sum of parts that can be rated, degraded and then discarded.
By the way, it's bigger than sexual promiscuity or abstinence. You can get your heart broken with your legs crossed just as much as you can when they are open.
No one takes time to heal anymore. It’s too uncomfortable. It’s much easier to hop on a dating app and lay our baggage at someone else’s unsuspecting feet.
This is not dating.
This surely isn’t love.
I think what we’re dealing with here is a very complicated adult version of King of the Hill. If you never played that game, let me tell you rules: some large object is designated as the “hill.” At my elementary school, it was this big concrete tube that, looking back, should never have been on an elementary school playground. Someone jumps on top of the object and yells: "I’M KING OF THE HILL!” And then it’s on. You use whatever you can to get to the top of that hill—legs, feet, teeth, arms, rocks, anything and everything. You press, pull, claw your way to the top and try to shout I’M KING OF THE HILL before someone snatches you down.
It’s definitely not safe. I experienced numerous cuts, bruises, scrapes and even a concussion or two trying to scale that concrete tube. Looking back, there never really was a clear winner in that game.
There isn’t one in this dating game either.
Am I giving up on dating? Nope. Never. I believe there is someone out there in this world who understands why Crooklyn makes me cry or how I have to go to bed with socks on, but I kick them off in the middle of the night. There is someone who won’t be afraid to hear that I’m not having a great day and we can talk about it—just as I would with him. There’s someone who will remember my birthday and send me more than a text message.
Someone who will pray with me.
Someone who will dream with me.
My love’s design.
Dang. I got sort of teary-eyed even typing that.
In the meantime, I refuse to treat people the way I’ve been treated. If I do ever get too big for my britches, there’s no need to trip: God has a way of getting my attention and reminding me who I really am.
And if He can deal with a wretch like ME….I guess I can forgive the jackasses of 2015.
Now excuse me while I dance down the street in my pink tank top and white tutu.