Different City, Different Results
Over the last several years, I had a string of laughable dating encounters. I dated the man who was married but neglected to tell me until a mutual friend spilled the beans. Despite his pleadings that the marriage was ending, I let it go�after a few months of pathetic rationalizations on my part. It was a reflection on my lack of gumption and I knew it. I had to date a more sensible man.
So I did. And he bored me to tears; I got more enjoyment out of The Lawrence Welk Show then I did my evenings with this man. It all came to a head however when he told me he wanted to order vanity plates for his new BMW. Some vanity plates are acceptable so I didn’t go on alert until he told me what they would say. His plates were going to immortalize Lionel Ritchie’s “Easy Like Sunday Morning”. When I heard that, I knew we were doomed. In my wildest dreams I would not be caught dead flying down the freeway with a Lionel Ritchie song plated to the back end of my transportation. No one with any sense would do that. I didn’t know much but I knew that.
After the Lionel Ritchie incident, I took a hiatus of about a year and a half. No dates, no worries. It worked well for the first year, but as time passed loneliness set in. So I tried my luck yet again. He seemed sweet enough – I first saw him at a neighborhood church. Turns out we were both unnerved by the touchy-feely drum circle service and its members at our neighborhood Unitarian church. Bonding over this experience, we went out several times. Everything was great at first but as the dates continued, I wasn’t sure if he wanted me or if he wanted to mold me into his idyllic trophy girlfriend. I didn’t stick around to find out.
At that point, I had had enough. I knew it was time to take drastic measures. I needed to do something of epic proportions to jump start my listless love life. I had gone the conventional route for the first 28 years and now it was time to make a change. And that is exactly what I did – I moved across the country.
Now a lot of people move to new places for someone they love; I however moved somewhere for lack of someone I loved. It seemed reasonable enough at the time. After some consideration, I found the perfect fit: a one-year volunteer position in Denver, Colorado. It was like a handfasting relationship – we would try each other out for a year and if things worked well, we’d stay together. If it didn’t, we’d part as friends. Denver and I had had a love affair for the previous 3 years and it was time to consummate our relationship. I couldn’t wait to move there and for the new adventures in my love life to set sail.
Within weeks of my arrival, there were countless potentials around me. There was the handsome mountain town boy who could conquer all with his Boy Scout-like abilities and calm courage, the friend of a friend who was a lead singer in a band and captivated with his mesmerizing blue eyes, and the young soccer player with the charming smile and quicker wit. Not to mention the oodles of set-ups and introductions I was promised by co-workers and acquaintances. But life would continue true to form and none of these interests or romantic possibilities materialized into anything worth writing my grandmother about. And she was the one person in my life still concerned that I would marry sometime during her lifespan. I seriously considered hiring someone to concoct potions for eternal life; sometimes it seemed I had a better chance at the finding the fountain of eternity than finding a lifelong companion.
However, a small part of me kept hope alive believing that a new city would bring new possibilities every day. Chance encounters with the handsome fellow at the coffee shop or the new beau hunk at the gym, any of these could be a brush with destiny and lead to the future of white picket fences and soccer practices I pined for. And I searched for all this with rosey-eyed glasses.
After six months in Denver, I knew my love life had returned to its usual non-existent state and eternal bliss wasn’t on my immediate horizon. In those six months I had endured significant challenges: I was on my own a majority of the time and as a minimally-paid volunteer my finances were a constant concern. But I was happy. I enjoyed the city; I enjoyed discoveries both around me and within myself. My new life was finally my own and I felt as though I was living in my skin, being my own person. I was beholden to no one but myself and it was intoxicating. Being without a relationship wasn’t so bad after all – I could cook whatever I wanted and drink milk straight from the carton while standing naked with the refrigerator door wide open. I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I could spend all afternoon sleeping under the trees of a neighboring park and no one would mind (well except the police; it seems the city has a policy against public napping – who knew?) I was alone and somehow I was ok with that. I had already accrued years of singlehood so I knew what to expect. There would be ups, downs, good times & sad times but I had weathered them before and would weather them again. Perhaps it wasn’t what my girlish dreams of love had been about but this was the start of something better, something richer. I was in love – with myself. Although I didn’t find the traditional love that I had expected, I did acquire a newfound respect for myself and an enriched perspective on the world. I discovered how to find the courage to set forth in unchartered waters and explore hopes and dreams. In the end, I found that love lies both within and around myself.
