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?

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This Time Was Different

I knew better. Despite what he said. Despite what he did. Despite what he wanted me to believe. I knew, in the way a woman always does, that he had long moved on from the bond we once shared. And while I predicted the day would eventually come where we’d be forced to go our separate ways, the piece of my heart that always saw the best in him hoped he would have handled it differently.

It was a game we played, he and I. He pretended he was committed to giving “us” a chance. I pretended he would actually try, and in the end we’d both pretend that the two of us were never meant to be. It was a cyclical conundrum of sorts. A bit of a merry-go-round of emotions that always led me back to the same place: tempted to see if we had what it takes, but woefully aware of the probability it’d never last.

But this time was different.

This time the merry-go-round stopped spinning before I was ready to get off, and after two years of silly playground antics in the city known to break hearts, it was time to admit that mine had fallen victim.

How did I get here? I wasn’t quite sure. But when I looked back at our teen- like affair, it was painfully obvious that the one thing I always wanted, was the one thing that was always missing. In between his assertions of wanting more and excuses for why he couldn’t provide it, I was left in limbo, hoping that one day he would actually give us – time.

I explained it away, justifying inconsistencies with reasons I knew held no weight. Claiming that both of our hearts were connected in this woven web of uncertainty and fear, that led us to press the breaks on pursuing something much greater. But the truth was, I simply wasn’t his person, and somehow my heart would have to untangle itself from the crisscrossing lines his alternative facts had formed.

It was time to break free. So I did. And just as I opened my eyes to his lies, my rose-colored glasses went missing. No longer did I see the man who won me over with his charm. Instead what stood before me, was a figure I wasn’t quite sure I knew. Caught up in the idea of his stated intentions, I realized I had latched on to what he said, and blissfully ignored what he did.

Was any of it real? I couldn’t say for sure. But the more I looked back, the more I had to admit that the reason we had gotten as far as we did, was solely because I refused to let go. He owned my heart in a way not even I was aware of; toying with it, taking it for granted, mistreating it for his gain, and manipulating it so covertly, I could not recognize it for what it was. All the while I was holding on for dear life, and he had long let go.

I guess it wasn’t in the cards. Actually – time had proven that. And it had also proven that although I made him out to be the right guy for my future, he was best suited to be a guy of my past. In his inability to be honest about his present, I found the courage to admit our time was up.

I can’t say for sure why he didn’t tell me. Maybe he couldn’t muster up the strength to confess he’d moved on. Maybe his inflated ego induced this idea that the truth would hurt me beyond repair. Maybe he thought that if he out-right admitted I wasn’t “the one”, my ego would be bruised forever. Or maybe, just maybe, he feared that if he confessed his need for something a little different, a little simpler, my heart would implode.

Whatever it was, he chose to secretly move on to the woman who offered convenience, with a little less depth and a lot less sophistication. And though I’m disappointed he didn’t have the soul to tell me, the part of me that still loves him, wishes him well.

There was a time when I was convinced we could have changed the ending. That we could have landed on the same page long enough to write an entire book. And now I ask myself, “at what cost?” I had reluctantly played all the games I had energy for. Despite what he said, he’d never give us a chance and despite what my heart wanted, my head conceded the memories of our never-quite-there romance were all she wrote.

He’s the guy I never expected to fall for, but happily watched as I did. Now as I dust myself off, attend to the scrapes, and Band-Aid the wounds his presence left behind, I find solace in knowing that the bruises will heal in their own time. They say love is a losing game, and that’s okay. God promised me something amazing while reminding me that the road to restoration may hurt, but these things happen.

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Eliminate the Noise

She was right. Seated amongst a bevy of tourists breaking from their department store shopping spree I heard my best friend, in not so many words, tell me it was time to start from scratch. And it’s not that I hadn’t tried to rid myself of past suitors in the last few years, it’s just that they, regardless of my words, always found their way back.

I was the sweet, Michelle Obama-esque woman they loved to not love while pretending they were ready. Prolonging our eventual end with fluffy remembrances of fun times and promises to make good on something we had started long ago. What was I to do if failed attempts at keeping them away meant they were ever-present without any real presence?

For me it’s always been a bit of tightrope — playing the role of the bigger person while in the back of my head wishing I could say exactly what’s on my mind. I didn’t get the confrontational sassy gene. That went to my sister. And the you-make-me-so-angry-I-could-fight-you gene went to her too. I, the second child, was left with the unique ability to convey my surface-level thoughts with a halfway-there smile and a tone so kind I can make people think I’m actually being polite. It’s served me well for years, but while an honest admission leaves me in euphoria, its subtle delivery often falls on deaf ears.

***

“Eliminate the noise,” she said, as I sucked down my prosecco-infused cocktail while giving side-eye realness. I knew, as did she, that it was a lot easier said than done. And not because I was holding on to past flames for any particular reason, but simply because I was so over them (ok… all but one of them), it didn’t feel like noise at all.

“We’re fine,” I replied. Assuring her that even in the midst of a 2017 free of dating I could still make sense of talking to a man who continuously told me of his plans to re-connect, settle our “unfinished business” and give me his last name.

The both of us could pretend his move to Detroit was the reason things ended, or that his job in NYC was too demanding. We could possibly even pretend that I was to blame. That my fascination with another man left me incapable of giving it my all. But each one of those scenarios would be deceitful. The truth being that we didn’t work out because the effort wasn’t there. Because at the end of the day dating him felt a lot like being single, and I realized a long time ago I didn’t have to settle.

Our last conversation came days after my cousin’s wedding and ended with “just watch.” A phrase I had heard too many times before from men who insisted their past behaviors were just that – a thing of the past. Insisting that they had miraculously changed into a gentleman who was now well-suited to pursue my heart, and, that if given just ONE more chance, I would see the “new them.” But nothing ever changed. The busy ones remained busy. The liars continued their tired lies. And the ones who never put in any effort continued to listlessly splurt out words that materialized into…well… nothing.

And maybe this was my plight. To be adored from afar, recklessly, and idly, while surreptitiously preparing my heart for the one who would show up and kill the noise with a single date. The one who wouldn’t have to utter the words “just watch” simply because everything he said and everything he did from.the.beginning. aligned perfectly with the vision I always had of him. The one who, for years, I imagined would make his triumphant entry and sweep me away, because he realized what the others did not, that talk was cheap and he was ready to DO.

I’ve long felt him hiding in the shadows, thinking he’s finally shown up, but eventually having to cop to the fact that yet again I’ve met another noisemaker. A man who makes me believe before crushing my dreams, and who with all reckless abandon plays games that constantly leave me on the losing side.

I often wonder why.

***

As we made our way from Stella 34 over to Penn Station, a part of my prosecco-altered mind began to think that my acknowledgment of past transgressions was reason enough to do as my best friend suggested. To just start from scratch, eliminating all possibilities of rekindling a romance, and completely clear my head of the ones whose actions led me to this year, free of dating. Why was I continuing to take their calls? Why was I compelled to respond to their texts? Why did I agree to meet for dinners that always started off on the right foot but would ultimately go left? I didn’t owe them a thing.

One day I’ll figure it out. And one day my polite, surface-level thoughts delivered with a barely-there smile will fall on ears willing to listen. OR… maybe not. I won’t pretend to know how this web called life will work its way out. And that’s okay. After all, these things happen.

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