Again and again and again

Michael read me a love story. The writer was dying and wrote a type of personal ad, vouching for her husband as a potential partner. I’m not sure why people – he’s not the only one – like to send me love stories. I already believe in love. I know the story. I don’t need any further convincing that it’s miraculous and real. What I need is to find it. — Slowly, slowly, I’m starting again. I’m not really dating yet, just swiping. I pulled out my phone after a glass of tequila and opened the faces. “Play,” I asked the women around me. Hesitant at first, and then getting the rhythm, they voted. “Left, left, left, right! Left…” I woke up in the morning with a handful of messages. I had to retrace my steps. Who are these people? Unmatch, unmatch, unmatch. “I’m so excited!” wrote one suitor. “I’m not sure how you are so calm! Our wedding is only one week away!” Unmatch. There are two or three lingering in the queue. Not quite inspiring enough to write the message. I may have finally reached the point of disillusion with dating. I’ve been advised before that you should state your intentions up front. If you want to get married, say so; forget about the men who will be scared away by it. I think I’m getting it now. The swipe apps of the world are holding less charm for me, pages and pages of men with unknown intentions. I just can’t push myself anymore into going on dates with uncertain possibility and finding the time well-spent. This is what I want: I want a full and rich life. I want a happy home, passionate sex, and deep embraces. I want to build furniture and grow a garden (okay, help my partner grow a garden, lord knows I kill all plants.) I want to be satisfied with my things (a challenge for me), I want to get my kicks from friends and family and home life. I want to cook at home more and spend a moderate amount on memorable nights out. I want to spend my time strengthening my relationships and strengthening myself. I want to do more yoga, I want to learn to sing. I want to volunteer more, be more politically active. I want to invite friends over for coffee, I want the feeling of my dog sleeping on my feet. I think I’m qualified. — Over dinner, I coax a coworker into talking about love with me. “It’s my favorite topic,” I tell her. She has a few stories, which she tells hesitantly. I have a million, I try to keep them from overflowing. Neil Bailey was my high school boyfriend. He doesn’t get an acronym; his name is practically a symbol in my story. He’s one of the many older brother figures I’ve brought home to my siblings, and my sister has never let go of him. He was older than me, but homeschooled, so it was okay. We were in marching band together. We got together over AIM. A week later, the annual marching band trip bonded us together for the next three and a half years. With Neil, I had a sense of security that I’ve looked for in every subsequent relationship. We didn’t fight, it just wasn’t a thing. Our similar outlook on life and general desire to be agreeable meant that we trusted each other naturally. He went to college my sophomore year in high school, and we stayed together until I started college myself. I wasn’t perfect with him. I broke his heart a few times, ultimately asking him to give me my freedom during my college years. He was good to me. Not a challenging person, but I think he is the reason I believe so easily in relationships. With a natural compatibility he was there for me. I dove headfirst into college life. I mean, I really threw myself into it. There were boys, but they were pit stops. No one special. Midway through my second year a friend from high school reached out, in need. I cute friend, someone I had eyed for years. He blew in and out in one year, filling all the space in my life like a torrential storm, and leaving me feeling drained and hollow. But I had him. Somehow after lusting for these years, I held on to him while I could. I think he was the one who started my addiction to Smart Boys. Really, it’s unhealthy how much I idolize men who teach me things. I think we’ve covered this before, so succinctly: smart boys are sexy, but no one is worth enduring emotional abuse. He was #2 on the official count, but one of the intermediaries is worth mentioning. Scott B picked me up from off the floor in my junior year. I had spent six months deteriorating in the room of a rented house, alienating my roommates and frustrating my peers in group projects. Scott worked at the same community center as I did. I was the one who asked him out, but he kept coming back for me. I was a shell of a person, if my memory is correct. He was probably never a long-term option, but god was he kind to me. He hadn’t had serious relationships and I had, so I led the charge somewhat. I invited myself to stay overnight at his house and formed a friendship with his roommate. I consisted wholly of pain and anger, he held me while I cried inconsolably. He wasn’t sure how to handle the emotions, but he looked me in the eyes and asked what I needed. He stroked my hair. I celebrated my 21st birthday at his house a week before going to Chile. “Hold out for someone special, Janice.” That was his lesson for me. After Scott was Manuel, but this is as much recollection as my heart can handle for one day. Manuel is the largest figure in my love life, one of the most important people I’ve ever met. Manuel is why I believe perfection is possible. “I fall in love too easily,” I confess to my coworker. “Really?” she replies. “I find it difficult to open myself that way.” “Maybe it’s for the better,” I tell her. “More rational.” “No,” she says. “Your way is better.” Dating Soundtrack this week: Magic, by Pilot It’s magic you know Never believe, it’s not so