Dating : The Dating Cemetery

I specifically remember my mom telling me in high school, while she drank her quintessential glass of red wine on the other side of our kitchen island and I smashed a slice of lukewarm pepperoni pizza post-practice, “They always come back.”

And now, after nearly three-and-a-half decades of life, I really get it. Because if I had a dollar for every guy who’d either gotten away or let me get away who then hit me up months (and years) later to say hi — please note that they’re never just saying hi — I’d be able to fund my Whole Foods habit for at least a week.

Backstory. I dated the same guy for pretty much all of high school. He was actually my first kiss in sixth grade. We went to some shitty movie where I had heart palpitations for over an hour while I worked up the nerve to lay my head on his shoulder. Somewhere between that moment and the final credits, we locked lips. I was later informed (by him) that I tasted like Runts. I believe we both would — to this day — still define it as love, and I also believe that we both would — to this day — still define it as a very typical high school relationship. You know, the one where you break up every few months for no identifiable reason other than the fact that Homecoming is next week and one of you wants to go to the dance with someone else who sits in the back corner of chem class.

He was a year older than me, and he was also the one who initiated most of our adolescent breakups. Not because he was a dick. But because we were just that, adolescents.

On one of those break-up nights in December — when we had passed by each other in the locker room hallway because the boys’ basketball team was taking the court as the girls’ basketball team ended early practice — my mom was consoling me that he’d inevitably resurface. I remember pouting while folding my New York-style pizza in half and inhaling the grease that pooled in the centerfold. Because, more cheese, please.

But, alas, she was right. He did come back. Because they always come back.

Now, let’s return to sports. My teens and twenties were filled with handfuls of athletes that I seemingly found attractive for no other reason than their ability to shoot a jump shot from the elbow off a down screen or hit the upper-ninety consistently from outside the eighteen or catch a football in stride on a slant route.

When I met a former Colorado high school heartthrob on the wake of turning 22, I instantaneously became infatuated. So infatuated, actually, that I’m not even sure how I mustered up the nerve to ask him to help coach my JV girls’ basketball team at a local tournament during the off-season. I’m pretty sure I persuaded him to play me in HORSE for it. I’m pretty sure I lost. I’m pretty sure that he said he’d help me anyway. I’m pretty sure the 20-something version of myself deemed this soulmate status. I’m pretty sure we made out on Sunday nights after every game. I’m also pretty sure that we never spoke again after the season ended (we didn’t). All that to say, I’m pretty sure we weren’t — and aren’t — soulmates.

I feel the need to utilize both the past and present tense versions of the “to be” verb here because, as my mom so wisely stated, they always come back. This particular one is no different (we’re not surprised) despite the thousands of miles lurking between us. It began with a nonchalant drop into my Instagram DMs a few months ago that ended with an inquiry about my underwear (initially documented here).

Needless to say, I aborted the conversation, thinking that this — now — nuisance would dissipate into the depths of my direct messages. But I was wrong. And, yet again, my mom was right. Because, recently, homeboy took it upon himself to return for round two: “Why don’t we hang out, make bad decisions, and then you can blog about how much you hate me? That sounds fun af.”

SURPRISE. Here is your moment, buddy. Relish in it. And, just think, we didn’t even have to hang out — or make bad decisions — for me to blog about how much I *dislike* you.

Sidebar. I’d be surprised if he even reads my shit.

My initial response to the aforementioned asshole statement went something like, “That’s the thing. I’m actually trying to find someone nice to write about.”

Open Pandora’s box. Because, he cries out, he is so nice and did so many “way too nice” nice things for me in our past life. These things included coaching my team, taking me to the movies, and “going on dates and shit.”

Me: “Wow, were those hard for you? Do you want me to send you a handwritten letter with a gift card to Olive Garden?”

Him: “Damn, I feel like you’re so bitter now. What happened to the sweet Steph I used to know?”

WHAT HAPPENED?!

First of all, she grew the fuck up. Because in twelve years, you don’t manage to escape this world unscathed. Because you’re doing it wrong if you make it out of your 20’s without even the most minute amount of baggage. Because great love resides on just the other side of potential heartbreak. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve faced a lot more of the latter. I’m not bitter. I know that. I’m just a better version of myself, one who doesn’t feel the need to succumb to ignorant requests for my backside in order to increase her self-confidence.

Me: “I’m not going to send nudes.”

Him: “I didn’t ask for any.”

Me: “A few months ago. You asked for a picture of me in my underwear.”

Him: “I asked what underwear you were wearing. Totally different.”

Oh my gosh, how ignorant of me. I’m so sorry for the mix up.

Read: I am not sorry.

But there is something about what’s happening here that is intriguing me. Because why? Why engage in this banter? For what? I don’t live remotely close to him (nor would the Airstream want to make an appearance inside his city limits). I’ve clearly established — again — that I’m not sending nudes. So, what is it? The fact that he gets a shot of serotonin while reliving our magical moments — I, personally, wouldn’t call them that — and then tomorrow he can go back to his everyday life?

DING.

Him: “I like reminiscing with you. And maybe there’s an off chance we see each other someday.”

Me: “We’re adults. If we wanted to see each other again, we could see each other.”

Read: I do not want to see him.

But, at this point in the conversation, I can only return to my thoughts on the current state of dating from The Man Blog. Because if we really had an interest in reconnecting, we would exert even the smallest amount of energy to do just that. Last time I checked, I’m fully capable of booking my own travel itinerary. But that’s not happening. Instead, he’s fleshing out some decade-old fantasy to feel better about himself. For him to align those words with actions would require way too great of a commitment. So, here we are, existing inside of small talk. Where he tells me that he hates Frenchies. Seriously.

WHY AM I STILL HERE, I scream.

And, on that note — do not cross Nugget — I abort for a second time. My curiosity has been quenched. I don’t need surface-level conversations. I can have those with my Whole Foods cashier. Or the leasing agent at yet another apartment complex in Denver. Or my Pure Barre instructor (who actually likes my dog).

Hey, homeboy, this wasn’t actually “fun af.” Let’s not do it again sometime.

But, as un-fun as these instances are, we all keep finding ourselves inside of them. Like birds who fly South for the winter, we search for a sense of familiarity, a place of warmth. We yearn to relive the moments that massaged our egos and incited butterflies within our stomachs. We go back because going back feels good — even if just for a moment — because our phones make it so incredibly easy to check in. Like the guy I matched with on Bumble in Houston in November who recently decided to make a comeback with the infamous unsolicited dick video via the Instagram airwaves (we’ve never actually met), and I got called “rude” for asking him to delete it because I wasn’t interested in digital sex.

FYI. That meme that reads, “Summer is here so please be aware of all the snakes out there” — which is then followed by pictures of three gnarly-looking snakes and one gnarly-looking text message blurb that says, “I miss you” — is pure gold.

You’re laughing because it’s true.

And I’ve been bombarded with this reality a lot lately. Both in my text-message-blurb life, but also in my real-life life. Because I get it. I miss people, too. I think about “what if” as much as anyone else. I’ve realized that it’s a natural part of our romantic evolution to ponder previous relationships, to think about how we showed up with a past person and how that person also showed up for us (or didn’t).

So I took it upon myself to dig deeper into why, and it’s impossible for me to explore such a topic without diving into the inner-workings of my last long-term relationship (many moons ago).

We had been best friends since we were ten. The day he moved to Colorado and walked into Basalt Middle School in his notoriously oversized Notre Dame sweatshirt. And despite his uncanny ability to break ankles and drain three-pointers, we never really dated.

As mentioned, I was exclusive with another guy for nearly all of high school. As also mentioned, that guy was older. As also mentioned, we broke up on a semi-regular basis. Our longest stint was when he went off to college before I’d graduated (yes, we gave it one final go the summer of my senior year). During that time, childhood best friend and I couldn’t stop making googly eyes across our English IV classroom (sorry, Ms. Hood).

One night, after spending hours cheering for each other at Basalt’s “Bighouse,” he gave me a ride home to save me from the few feet of snow that had haphazardly blanketed our small mountain town during the course of the evening’s games. His right hand naturally rested on my left thigh, and I held on to his pinkie that was still thickly wrapped in athletic tape with all five of my fingers. We kissed. It wasn’t the first time. But something about his lips on that night seeped into the marrow of my bones. The pinkie that now softly scratched behind my right ear as he pulled me in closer. The goosebumps that overtook every follicle of hair on my skin. An aphrodisiac.

It started there. It ended there. Because, timing. Because, high school. Because.

Until it didn’t. Until one random day in December when I happened to be 30-something and single, standing in my typical Tree Pose by the front desk of the yoga studio where I worked, when my iPhone alerted me: “I miss you.” Number unknown.

Okay, I suppose some additional info is needed here. He and I did talk minimally through college. We were always the first ones to wish each other Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday. I was also one of the first people to reach out to him when I heard that he was making some not-so-great life choices (think doing drugs and then think selling drugs).

We eventually drifted away from even our holiday greetings as I chased the façade of the American Dream and he chased the love of money. The more I caught wind of his shortcomings, the more I felt a little piece of my heart hollow, but I was also so far removed from that town that had raised me — a place that he couldn’t seem to escape.

When I was able to sleuth my way into solving the puzzle of the unknown sender, I could feel those hollow parts of my heart slowly start to refill. He was doing better. He had had a revelation. He was back to being himself. And I missed him.

Long story short, we started dating. As easily as that hand he’d laid on top of my thigh when we were 18-years-old. And the beginning was actually as amazing as the moment when our lips touched in the front seat of his Trooper.

What I can see now is that we did need each other. Then. Our independent brokenness was a catalyst for our codependence. I was fresh out of a toxic marriage that had shattered my self-esteem. And he was fresh out of jail. We both begged for a love that could carry us. The kind of love that oxygenates the platelets to scab the bleeding of your heart. A love that I don’t think we could have gotten from anyone or anywhere else.

Because that’s the thing about coming back. You are clouded by feelings — love or lust — that simultaneously exist in both past and present. When you are with that person now, you are also with that person on a Friday fifteen years ago taking a vocabulary test where you can’t focus because your pupils are magnetized to his eyes from across the classroom. Even though his seat is as far away from you as humanly possible, a tireless effort by your teacher to separate you.

We come back because we want to know that moment was really real. And we want to know that we have the capacity to feel it again. And, in times of weakness — breakups and job losses and acts of global terrorism — we race to this safe space (that, ironically, for one or both parties may never have been safe at all).

But, he and I, in the beginning, it was safe.

Until it wasn’t. Until I began finding shooters in his nightstand. Until I started uncovering his lies that he used as alibis for his addictions. Until I woke up to the fact that I was trying to save someone — the guy who I had walked arm-in-arm with down the graduation aisle while R. Kelly’s “The World’s Greatest” blasted in the background — who didn’t want to save himself. Or maybe he just couldn’t save himself.

Ultimately, I realized that my work to be better and do better was being unmet by a man who simply could not keep up. I had fallen in love with the story. But I was being abused by the person.

Because it got worse before it got better. I watched a person with all the potential in the world completely self-destruct. I cried and I cried and I cried. And then, then I went numb. Because the one person who I had idealized in my mind as being “the one who got away” terrorized me to a point of police intervention. And you can’t sit in a courtroom and act as your own lawyer for a restraining order while feeling. Anything.

Numb wins. Numb won.

And now, because we tried, because we went back, strings of childhood memories are tainted with the stains of our adult choices. In an effort to explore what could have been, we poisoned past, present, and future. And I’m often left wondering if the twinge of never knowing would have been better than this gut-wrenching reality.

Because when they come back, which they so often do, it is not the same. They are not the same. You are not the same. The energy that exists between your two bodies is now a frothy mixture of before and after.

I have heard stories of reunions that end in beautiful weddings followed by beautiful children. They are outliers. But I’m not here to negate that I’ve heard them. I’m not here to denounce the very hopelessly romantic side of myself that desperately wants to believe that they are true.

What I am here to affirm about the coming back is that our expectations serve as a catalyst for disappointment (a statement that I believe holds true for anything in life). When time and distance have detached us from the everyday behaviors of a person, we are able to write our own stories about how that person operates. And in our minds, fictional people don’t do bad or annoying or disrespectful things.

Because even at our most self-aware state, we like to deny hardship. It doesn’t feel good.

Our phones then allow us to live inside the expectation. We don’t have to come face-to-face with the potential heartbreaks or tough conversations or unrequited feelings. We can revel in the shots of serotonin without having to overcome any obstacles associated with human relationship. And this is true for the helicopter swipers who hide inside of our social feeds and the “what if” crushes from Christmases past and the “let’s try it again” ex-significant others.

Sidebar two. I’m a firm believer that if a relationship didn’t work the first time then it’s not going to work for the second. A separation was initiated for a reason, and I can’t find any available data to support that those same two people can merry-go-round again without head-butting the same problems (and reopening those same scabbed wounds).

When I was writing The Man Blog, one of the guys told me about a girl who he was really interested in meeting. They had been talking for weeks to get their schedules to line up. On the day of their first date, she stopped responding to his messages. And I mean that she resorted to actual radio silence. Vanished.

*sigh*

I have way too many of these stories.

A few months later, the same guy posts a selfie on his Instagram. His name pops up on my phone, and I open his iMessage: “Steph, I swear. There’s nothing like a good selfie to bring out the old and the curious women. Like, my DMs just jumped and seven of the women who can’t actually comment on my pic in public sent me their own selfies directly to my inbox alongside a message to tell me how cute I am.”

Of course, include first-date Houdini on this direct message list.

*screams loudly inside Whole Foods while everyone is watching*

Because I’m in desperate need of understanding this phenomenon. I actually can’t wrap my head around it any longer. And try as I might, I just don’t think I’m ever going to be able to get it; what I have formulated is a highly sophisticated solution.

If you want to bring back your dating dead, then do it. Stop sliding into DMs like this is an original operation. Stop talking, period. I’m not so cynical that a reunion might not be warranted; I am exhausted by our digital dependence to vocalize words that we don’t have the confidence to articulate in real life or the intent to execute in real time.

If you enter the cemetery, walk in with awareness. That you are different. That he or she is different. That the fantasy in your head may be the furthest cry from what could ever be. But if it means something for you to explore it, then do it with full permission. Stop saving yourself. If you choose to enter, you are choosing.

You. Are. Choosing.

So, honor yourself. And honor the other person. Stop sending “I miss you” notes in lieu of action. Because you can sit inside of missing someone. That is necessary and raw and real. But the moment those words are inked into existence, a wrinkle is created inside of space. And you have to ask yourself if you’re sending those words to make that person feel better or to make yourself stop feeling worse.

Because, permanent. Because, selfish. Because.

None of us are good at this dating stuff. But only together can we stop the suck. Because I can’t imagine we’re helping each other — I can’t imagine we’re raising the vibrations for our collective whole — if we persist with such trivial tactics.