If I wrangled all the romantic encounters I’ve had in the past five weeks, I would seem ridiculous to you. The last five years? You’d think I was daft.
A crushaholic. A codependent. A masochist. A machine. How could anyone look romance in the face — in so many different faces — and not turn to salt when it sours? What kind of person could wake up and march through the rituals of dating again: texting through the butterflies, dressing for dinner, singing the familiar date duets of sibling names, favorite bands, career milestones, pet peeves, major losses, and the embarrassing hope of one day making a life with someone you just met?
Before five years ago, I wouldn’t believe it. I was married. I’d entered my first real relationship at 18 years old, and it managed to last until 27. In that relationship, I grew up. I learned how to share bills. I learned how to plan meals and iron perfect creases into slacks. I learned how to take someone to the hospital in an emergency. I learned how to confess when my body was doing something decidedly gross. I learned how not to mention — out of the kindness of my heart — when my partner’s body was doing something decidedly gross. I learned how to reveal my fantasies to someone I had to look in the eye every day for presumably the rest of my life. I grew up in other ways: I began my careers in education and publishing. I learned how to drive. I discovered how much I sucked, and then I started therapy.
Eventually, mundane conflicts became irreconcilable. Then, like many: I had a loving marriage that failed.
Failure is a harsh word that someone landed on to describe a break-up. I had an amicable divorce. He’s still among the first people I call for career advice or after an accident. When you’re having coffee together at Waffle House after signing away your lifetime commitment, you’re family.
At a certain point, I had to wonder: Is a bond that brought you joy but didn’t end in partnered bliss a personal shortcoming? Is an ended relationship a failure?
Before it ended, I was afraid no one would ever love me again. I’d had a rough childhood that lacked closeness and affection. I spent a lot of time alone with my drawings or stolen library books, and I won over my teachers to cope. The partner who became my husband was the first person who made me feel understood. All of the evidence suggested I was blowing my one shot at love — that prized grail of the television shows and movies and books that raised me.
I was dead wrong.
Just three weeks after moving to Memphis, someone I’d met on my first night out at the Lamplighter drunkenly yelled, “I’m in love with you!” outside of a bar at a Jack Oblivian show, and I was Midtown baptized. The rest is the history with which I come to you, dear reader.
The years have been stormy weather. I’ve been ghosted. I’ve been broken-hearted. I’ve been deceived. I’ve ridden the low hum of casual disappointment. I’ve talked to friends, I’ve talked to shrinks, and I’ve consulted the stars. I’ve been spun on dance floors. I’ve been driven to buy groceries in freak Memphis snowstorms. I’ve been inspired. I’ve been respected and listened to deeply. I’ve had my wildly imperfect body worshipped. I have been loved. And I’ve done a lot of loving; therefore, I’ve done a lot of losing.
As of a few months ago, I am once again freshly single, and I am once again, dating.
The last one wasn’t suited for the unique demands of being my life partner. The next may not be. I can’t help but feel like the struggle of love — finding and keeping it — isn’t a failure, but a fortune of mine that, like all else, won’t last forever. There will come a time when the phone stops ringing.
So now, I am open to love like a holy fool. The romantic relationship — not critical to leading a fulfilling life, but mysterious and beautiful — a reason to leap if ever there was one.
Join me.
