I am normally not the least bit inclined to blog about my love (or as it goes lately–lack of love) life, but I think I’m left with no choice. This is far cheaper than therapy, so here goes.
Tonight, as I stood at my refrigerator, contemplating grapes vs. ice cream as an evening snack (the grapes won–hooray for good decisions!), nestled among birth announcements, wedding save-the-dates and bachelorette party invitations, my eyes met with a magnet that reads: “I am a magnet for unavailable men”.
I think this line actually comes from that epic J.Lo movie “The Wedding Planner”. You know, the one where she (in the title role) falls in love with her client’s fiance, played by Matthew McConaughey in the one role where he’s not the best looking thing in the universe. (It’s really just the hair, the rest of him is top-notch.) But anyway, back to the magnet.
In regards to me and men, it seems truer words have yet to be spoken.
If a historian were dating my dating life, he would probably figure that the first notable instance of Unavailable Man (UM) occurred in May, 1999. I was 20. In the 11 years since then, there have been countless instances to follow. Various occasions of friendly fun me meeting (somehow or another) “my type”, engaging in interesting conversation and feeling a bit of (what some might call) chemistry, and then me getting virtually clubbed behind the knees when the news of unavailability is (somehow or another) delivered. Either way, my interest + the announcement of unavailability = the termination of my interest, which, when x (multiplied by) numerous similar occurrences —> (yields) the imminent dissolution of my optimism.
Which brings me to today.
Most days these days, my lack of a love life doesn’t even register. I have a wonderful family, great friends, the ever-present grief of losing my sweet mama, an intense career, a home under construction, a sweet dog, a shoe addiction, a growing knitting habit, a struggling exercise/diet routine, and all the other ins and outs in the life of a typical 31-year-old single gal living in the city. And maybe I should also mention that I emotionally benched myself back around Christmas when I just barely realized my grief was misleading my heart where a certain not-right-for-me guy was concerned. So, 6 months later, when I think things are stabilizing, and I decide it might be time to suit up and get back in the game, I’m reminded (again) about my magnetism for the UM.
This time he was Scottish. (I have a thing for Scottish guys. Well, had a thing, for one Scottish guy.) But nevertheless, I met this Scot last week at a post-Astros game hangout, and he was, indeed, married. I saw the ring. I’m like a metal detector when it comes to detecting precious metals. (But I’m terrible with analogies.) Fine. I can talk baseball with a married guy. It’s fine. Until he leans in and says, “I know I’m married, but I want you to know I fancy you.” Of course he fancies me. He’s MARRIED. He’s un-fanciable, if that’s a word. I smiled and said politely, “Thanks for the compliment. It was nice meeting you.” and I swiftly found my exit.
The thing that makes this one little encounter sting so much is that earlier in the night, at the game, I met a perfectly single, gainfully employed straight man who shared a certain affection for obscure baseball phrases like “can of corn” with me. It was great. We talked and talked and flirted, and when he left, he nonchalantly gave me his card. Worst. Thing. Ever. The little stinker put the ball in my court. Ugh. Why couldn’t HE have “fancied” me? Why couldn’t HE have tried harder?
I know timing’s everything. Trust me. I coined that phrase back in May 1999 when the first UM left such a mark.
“Chemistry is chemistry, and marriage is mostly timing. And timing sucks.”
Maybe those are the truest words I’ve spoken.