“It could all be so simple,
But you’d rather make it hard…”
Is THIS why I’m single?
72 hours ago, I was high on life, newly smitten with “The Scribe,” and prepared to throw (almost) all caution to the wind, because…romance, damn it! And today? The Scribe is back on the West Coast (at least, for the week), and I’m a bundle of nerves, confusion, and longing.
Seriously, Y’all: I spent most of Saturday alternating between craving his company, contemplating all of the reasons we cannot possibly work, watching a “Sex and the City” marathon, and solo-swilling rosé. For the record, that is basically a recipe for disaster for an over-thinker like me.
So, what’s the problem, exactly? Honestly, I don’t know. Let me over-think it for a sec:
I mean…this is what I said I wanted, right? Repeatedly—right here, in this very blog—I’ve said I want a guy who won’t allow the opportunity to be with me pass him by. I believe I’ve even said I wasn’t hoping or expecting to find him online; just that the experiment might “shake something lose”, maybe spark a little magic. I’ve said I want a guy who sincerely respects—and matches—my intelligence and talent (and idiosyncrasies). No big deal; just a magical, mystical unicorn of a guy who loves music, loves my hustle, digs my stories (even when they’re about him), and knows how to focus—on me.
In fact (all stalkerish overtones aside), this hypothetical, “real deal” guy won’t keep his eyes, his hands, or his mind off of me; and the feeling will be—hypothetically—mutual. Because of course, this would be a guy I not only have great chemistry with, but who has great manners, great grammar, great kisses, a great mind, and a great story of his own. You know, because the hypothetical guy in my head, he’s…great.
So, is The Scribe that hypothetical guy in my head? It’s far too soon to tell for sure; but he’s been doing a fairly good imitation of him for the past week or so.
It’s intense. And frankly, it’s scaring the hell out of me.
Because if he is that guy, that would mean that this was all way, way too easy. It might even mean that there was no point to this project at all, since he was here the entire time, and not online. Most alarming: What would it mean if the minute things start to slow down and settle somewhat, I freak out and make a break for it?
Wouldn’t it mean that I’m the girl who cried wolf, because I’m the one with the commitment issues?
Okay, so maybe it’s not that simple. After all, I’ve been in several long-term (and very settled) relationships—not to mention the ones I’ve attempted to be in, that never actualized. And, as I’ve said many times by now, this project was supposed to be about doing the things I’ve never done when it comes to relationships: exploring my options, really getting clear on what I want, allowing myself to see and be seen fully, and ensuring—for once—that I’m actually choosing, rather that just settling for who shows up.
And no, The Scribe isn’t a slouch to be settled for. So, why do I find myself looking this gift horse in the mouth—poking and prodding, picking fights and picking him apart for flaws and clues that might disqualify him from consideration? Why am I suddenly asking for space to back up and catch my breath when, mere days ago, I was so eagerly “leaning in”?
Am I just fickle? Foolhardy? F**ked up beyond repair?
Perhaps. Or, maybe this is the side effect of leaning in that I didn’t consider: that I risk losing focus when our faces are that close together; that, of course, it’s hard to catch my breath when it’s intermingling with another’s; that if I lean in far enough to start falling, I may not be able to stop myself, let alone control the speed or depth of my fall. So…perhaps it’s best not to lean too far, too fast?
Yeah, I know: I’m over-thinking it. But this is my life—and if all goes well, possibly my love. I’ve invited you all to witness it; but ultimately, I’ll have to live with it. How much is too much thought, when it comes to your life?
Of course, this would all be far less complicated if he wasn’t so damned…great.
On his last night in town, when I tell him all of these things—at first angrily, then in exasperated tears—I wait for him to throw his hands up in frustration, to make the decision for both of us. Save yourself, I think. Don’t let me waste your time. What if it isn’t worth your trouble?
I ask him what he wants. What will make him happy? He says that of course, he wants it work out between us, if possible. Even if that means we need to slow down, so I can catch my breath. Yes, even if I need to continue dating awhile longer, so that I really know what—and who—I’m choosing.
“I want you to figure it out,” he says.
Yeah, me too. We both deserve that.
At a temporary loss for words, we spend some time in silence. Then, he holds me really, really close for a few moments, before he leaves for home—in LA. And suddenly, there I am, alone again. I finally can catch my breath, and have my plenty of space to clear my head. Great.
Except…the moment he left, I wanted him to come back.