Who’s Loving You?

There we sat. Four seemingly well put-together women gathered around a brunch table just steps away from the 2/3 trains at 72nd Street. On our agenda — de-compacting life, careers and —because it was the fall of 2014 — Ebola. But even with the possibility of an infectious, deadly disease looming over our heads, the greater concern at that Upper West Side cafe was not the bug that we were avoiding, but instead, the one that had seemed to avoid us. The love bug.

At the time, it had been almost a year since my last “relationship.” Although we had only officially broken things off that May, the feelings of “butterflies in my stomach” had long since left. I think they got lost somewhere in the Pacific and decided it was best to let new butterflies find me in New York. After two and a half years of having a piece of my heart outside of a drivable distance, I was and still am, totally okay with that.

For my marketing manager – she dated. British businessmen, Swedish models, French stockbrokers, Italian execs. But with all of their beautiful accents, she hadn’t quite found the one that spoke her love language.

My social worker — well she was an interesting case. If I had to give a professional opinion based on my over-consumption of The Millionaire Matchmaker, I would have said that her “picker” was off. Thankfully she had found a great man in Jesus, so while she wanted to find “the one,” her number one kept her pretty occupied.

And finally, my insurance specialist (also my NYC transplant for the weekend). She had a boyfriend — one who she loved and knew loved her, but after nearly five years of being together, she wanted more than an unofficial title. What she wanted was the real deal. She wanted marriage.

In this crazy metropolis our stories weren’t unique. If I gathered 100 NYC women together to give me their take on dating in one of thee most populated cities in the world, at least 95 of them (skewing on the lower side of course) would say the same thing — “It’s difficult.”

We all know it. An article reminds us of it every week. Our parents who call us from the burbs and rural areas of the country bring it to the front of our memory every time we speak. And even our therapists nudge at the idea of us moving for better chances of finding a mate. But even with all of the annoying cues from every nook and cranny of the universe, our awareness fails to keep us from being disappointed, getting frustrated, or sending messages to our Gchat therapist (I service several clients) about being completely confused as to why “it” hasn’t happened.

—

A lot has changed since that October day on the Upper West side, but one question asked during our spirited roundtable remains vividly ingrained in my mind — Who’s loving you?

It’s a question my uncle had posed to my cousin weeks before our meeting, and one that she had then posed to the group. As I sat there eating my breakfast enchiladas and sipping on sangria, I remember the inquiry making its way from the tip of my thoughts to the underside of my heart.

My uncle had a point. A point that I reflect on often, probably even daily, as I navigate life as a single woman in her thirties. While I had found it easy to devote my energy to a man based on the feelings I had for him, I was less inclined to give something a chance solely because of the interest he showed in me. What that’s left me with is a perpetual state of wondering “Who is loving me?”

I honestly couldn’t say for sure.

While I hear it — sometimes from new interests, mostly from former flames, I can’t honestly admit that I ever believe it. The older I get the more I realize that words have no weight without action. And “I love you’s” mean jackshit without the behavior to back it up.

Last night I asked a friend, “Do you think he ever loved me?”

Though my former soulmate often says it, I can’t help but side-eye his entire existence in my life. Yesterday evening he was out on a date with his new interest. Last month he was wondering why I couldn’t “accept our journey.” Two years ago he was pretending he didn’t have a girlfriend though they lived together.

I mean — what type of love is that?

My male friend’s conclusion based on everything I’ve told him — “I can’t really know for sure. But to a certain extent, I’m sure he did. Just not enough.”

And the “not enough” part is what takes me back to my uncle’s question. Because shouldn’t we all be with people who are excited to be with us? Who aren’t afraid to lay their feelings bare? Who not only say that they have love for us, but actually work to show us that sweet affection every day?

My former soulmate is not an isolated case (although I really wish he were). I’ve seen it with other so-called suitors, with my friends, and with countless women who somehow think that a casual “hi” is license for them to tell me their most pressing frustrations with the opposite sex. What I’ve found is that we often look at settling as being with someone we’re “mehh” about even though they have amazing characteristics and treat us like gold. But what exactly would we call the pursuit of someone who doesn’t respect himself or us enough to let our heart go once they realize they aren’t equipped to take care of it?

I always thought that a lasting relationship for me would look like equal parts interest on both sides. But maybe, just maybe, the basis for my “forever” really is about who loves me more.

At 33 I’m still figuring it out. But what I do know, is that the next time I decide to even give up a piece of this precious heart of mine, I’ll need to be able to answer with the confidence of ten mediocre white men the very question I’ve asked myself since that crisp, fall day at that UWS cafe — Who’s loving me?