Dating : Moving Days (2nd draft)

Moving Days (2nd draft)

I’m laying in bed, listening to my roommates fight as they go through their things. And they aren’t actually fighting, just bickering, over what to keep, what has to go. Boxes of expensive, gorgeous shoes are stacked on the floor, the “keep” pile towering over the one tote bag that is the entirety of the “sell”. It’s been hours and so far the only thing that absolutely has to go is this one tote bag, so clearly negotiations have been a major success. They are going from a three-bedroom house in Queens, to the New York definition of a “one bedroom apartment”. This would be similar to telling your cat he now has to do all of his business in a soup spoon.

Moving in New York means completely examining every single relic of your relationship, every ticket stub, every expensive boot, every questionable piece of art gifted from a friend, and deciding if they make the cut. I suppose it’s also an examination of the other person: here you are, at this next milestone of your shared life, and it’s time to go over all the evidence and figure out if they are coming with you, or if they need to be in the “sell” pile.

I suppose my friends would actually be donated, because who could buy either of them? They’re too smart, too clever, too talented. I often find it amazing and maddening that two such stellar people not only found each other, but also manage to love each other. If they were back on the market, I doubt their price points could be supported. In this economy? No. You can’t even afford their baggage, and I mean that in the metaphorical and literal sense. It’s Louis Vuitton!

I think things like this are the reason I’m so completely comfortable being by myself, romantically speaking. I don’t want to go through any evidence of a mutual existence, I don’t want to deliver a monologue to support keeping anything. And it’s not that I’m attached to physical belongings, I frankly own next to nothing since moving to New York. I’m attached to the idea of me as a solo act. I don’t want to share billing, or bills. I don’t want to rely on anyone else only to be let down. Surviving in New York means building a network, exposing your wounds, asking for help. That’s all fine, but I’d rather do it without the rosé-colored glasses of “modern love”.

Oh poor me, right? What a unique take on dating: “Everyone is terrible, so I refuse to participate”. I’m literally covered in glass shards from the ceiling I just burst through. Thankfully, I recently bought emoji bandaids from a three-story Walgreens, a purchase I have to defend to utterly no one. Except, of course, myself, when in a few days I don’t have enough for train fare, and I remember that I spent a full $3 on bandages with winky faces on them. Sorry, future self.

I’m supposed to be helping them, but I’m more useful when they get to the point of just cleaning or moving boxes. This activity is entirely personal, and frankly I’ve never had to decide between keeping either the Gucci or the Valentino boots. My opinions are based purely on how the item in question makes me feel; I don’t know the drama of creation, I don’t know the timestamp of the collection on human history, and I definitely don’t know how much it costs. Through their eyes, I have an entirely new appreciation for what can be considered “expensive”. I don’t own a single thing that cost more than $60, and I consider myself an expert on finding items at the thrift store that are also on sale for having a yellow or a blue price tag. Gucci doesn’t have a color coded tagging system with daily sales, and that is the only reason I don’t shop there. It definitely is not because I clothe myself like a Lost Boy.

I suppose I am sort of jealous, and not just of the beautiful, designer things they’ve accumulated together. I’m also jealous of the process; at times it seems they might literally claw each other’s eyes out over a shoe or a suit, but then they’re back to laughing hysterically before I can even write two paragraphs about the argument. The freedom to conflict but still be a team: I’m jealous of that. In all of my relationships, I was moved to the sell/donate pile without much discussion, at least on the part of the other person. On my end, there was plenty of discussion. Plenty of screaming, crying, accusatory discussion.

I don’t consider myself a victim of Dating Men, more like a conscientious objector who’s been hit a few times. I tried it, I did the fatigues and the bunkers and all that mess, and decided I’d rather be literally anywhere else, in clean clothes, with 70% less gunfire whizzing past my head. I need to be able to hear my podcasts and stay up until 3 writing about absolutely nothing without having to explain myself.

I spent a full decade explaining myself, to lovers and partners. Explaining my actions, begging forgiveness. Explaining my feelings, begging for even a hint of understanding. I don’t have the sort of personality that can be subdued, and being a raging alcoholic with untreated mental illness sure didn’t sweeten the deal. I was a nightmare who exclusively selected other nightmares and tried to build a life with them. And I love horror movies as much as the next weird girl, but I don’t want to LIVE in one.

Now I have the clarity of sobriety, and I realize I honestly don’t give a fuck about what most straight men have to say. I’m great about dealing with boredom, but people tend to notice when you whip out your phone and start playing a game where you incubate and raise moths, instead of listening to them complain about their overbearing, evangelist mother. My icy retort of, “Well honey, your mom claims to see demons and angels, and thinks we are in a global war between heaven and hell…do you think maybe she’s fucking crazy?”, isn’t really met with high regard. I mean, you asked. I’m just trying to help.

All through my 20’s I was crashing through life, trying to find a balance that could not be achieved with my half-assed efforts. I would simultaneously try to accept gaping flaws in another human, while trying to throw an old tarp over mine. “Under construction!”, the signs would say. “Hard hat required!”. War zones, construction sites, both places I’m overdressed, and under-appreciated. I would much rather be here, amongst friends, who are neither enchanted nor burdened by my idiosyncrasies.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am absolute garbage when it comes to being a reliable friend. I try, I commit to things I think I’ll be able to do, and then I just get wrapped up in the same web of mental illness and self pity, and end up flaking. I’d say I currently have a 20% success rate with all commitments, which is actually pretty high for me. I just can’t get out of my own head, at times. I can’t imagine having the wherewithal to do that with someone who wants to have sex with me. It’s taking everything I’ve got to just maintain friendships and I can assure you, these two men do not want to see me naked.

The benefits to being alone absolutely destroy the disadvantages, for me. Having someone to hold, someone to trust sounds great, but I don’t have the budget for quality. Goodwill doesn’t seem to keep stable, ambitious, kind, funny and relatively handsome men in stock, and they definitely don’t have a blue or yellow price tag, so I’m going to have to pay full price. I’d rather put that money towards luxury skincare, gourmet vegetarian food, train rides to places I’ve never seen, or moderately offensive tattoos. And when it’s time for me to pack up and move on, I’ll have no one to argue with about what to keep, but my former self.