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.
Isaiah 58:11,
K.
