About a year ago, frustrated and confused by how the hell anyone manages this ridiculous world of “dating”, I read The Rules. Man, I loved those rules. They were simple, concrete guidelines for how you manage this complex and crazy relationship stuff. They told me what to do when I was confused and anxious, hurt, and wanting to tear my hair out. It was all based on this idea of just being amazing and acting like you don’t care about anyone because you are so busy being amazing. This was so comforting for me. I am fantastic at being aloof. Actually, most people think I dislike them because I am so damn good at it. The reality is that The Rules never worked out for me. Lying to people did not actually build solid relationships. Playing games is immature and having boundaries like that prevented me from actually experiencing intimacy with someone. I could never manage the dissonance of pretending not to care while actually caring.
I am a 28 year-old with a doctorate in clinical psychology. I am successful by any metric, but my relationships are a disaster. I fully appreciate the irony in that. I promise I don’t have a personality disorder. I know because I asked two different therapists and they assured me I did not.
I know what your thinking: you’ve got me pegged as a hag. This is the midwest; everyone married at 21 unless the have hideous warts all over their face or a colostomy bag. Single women, approaching 30 must just be horribly deranged. Perhaps I make them home-made cards out of glitter on the second date. Perhaps I’ve microwaved a cat or two. Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe their too low. Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and take the esthetician’s recommendation on tinting my eyebrows!
To what degree all of that may or may not be true is immaterial as I have been truly, madly, deeply (as it were) in love. I have been loved; hell I’ve been proposed to. I met that man when I was 19 as well (you know, the one all those midwest ladies married). Rather than leaping down the isle with him at the first late period, I left him, realizing that there would be no bliss (or even vague tolerability) in our marital future. I fell in love with a philandering Turk and had sex like heroines from romance novels, but the roller-coaster made me queasy (literally and figuratively). After all that, I still don’t understand men.
And, no, I don’t regret any of it! I don’t wish for these men back. I don’t wish to forget them. These experiences have made me into a person of whom I am quite fond (albeit a bit jaded, but who could blame me, really?).
I know what you are about to say and I don’t not want to hear it! You are about to give me some shit about “soul mates” and say something trite about how there is “someone out there for everyone.” That is a load of crap that people tell themselves to make themselves feel better. I’ve got news. Fact: Many people die alone. Fact: Well-educated women are over-represented among those who never marry. Fact: most people who never marry do not decide that from the outset, but rather resign themselves to that reality after many things do not work out. You know what I believe in? I believe in science, logic, death, and taxes.
I am so logical and reasonable, but I love fairy tales. I still hope there are mermaids and handsome princes who ride you off into the sun. I wish there were these things, but I know there are not. I know that reality is a cruel mix of effort and luck and Santa Clause is not coming to town. People are never as good as they hope they are and if you aren’t part of a dyad, you aren’t anyone’s number one.
Despite all of this, I’m going to look out the window every once in a while to see if my prince has come. I’ll fill you in on the details and maybe we will find some unicorns.
