I'm probably an idiot for still believing in love

When in doubt, lick protein off a spoon.

Routines

I have this routine when I get home after a particularly draining day.

I open the front door of my apartment, drop everything I'm carrying onto the hardwood floor, let out a loud, discernible sigh that my body collapses into, before slipping off my shoes onto the designated rug and closing the door behind me.

I don't grab any of the items off the floor, I ignore the mess and start walking down the long unnecessary entry hallway (that could've been a better designation of space) towards the bedroom at the other end. I don’t wait to get to the room before I start changing out of my clothes from the work-day.

I walk into the spacious closet which cancels out the wasted space of the hallway, grab my brown, Brown University sweatshirt that I got while touring colleges a decade ago and still remains one of the softest pieces of clothing I own. It's a little too big on me, which makes it all the more comforting.

I slip the neck over my head, the body slinking down my torso, ever so slightly past my bum, stopping at my upper thighs. I glide my arms into its roomy sleeves, letting out another audible deep breath, and releasing my two decades of dancer ingrained posture into a cathartic slouch. A kind of full bodied rebellion I find deeply satisfying.

I gather my trapped hair from underneath the collar, and let it fan out across my back while contemplating pants. Pants, while often overrated in the comfort of one’s abode, serve great purpose when it is nearly winter and there's a chill inside from the questionably insulated living room windows.

Pants, it is.

I choose a complimentary pair of white lounge pants, walk into the kitchen barefoot, pull the top drawer open and retrieve a single heavy weighted spoon, the kind that feels grounding to the tactilely minded.

I turn around to open the cupboard behind me, standing on my toes, as I pluck the glass jar of salted smooth peanut butter from the top shelf. I take one generous scoop that tempts the laws of gravity, close the lid tightly, and put it back, out of sight and out of reach because I lack a fundamental self control around salted smooth peanut butter. I lift up one foot, rest it on my inner thigh and slowly devour the dollop of salty goodness.

No phone, no distractions, no pressure, just the white background noise of an oscillating fan and distant sounds on the street seven stories below.

I don’t know what it is exactly about this idiosyncratic process that I find so soothing — perhaps it’s the first moment I get a chance to shut my brain off, not be responsible for something or someone else. Or maybe it’s the relief a woman gets when she takes off her restrictive clothing and exchanges it for the feeling of freeing cotton against her skin. Whatever it may be, I’ve been doing this silly ritual long before I realized it was one. A former boyfriend pointed it out during a particularly grueling finals week, Junior year of university. He caught me in the act and playfully teased me for standing like a flamingo, while licking a spooned gooey glob, staring off into the abyss that was my kitchen window.

Lucky for me, he said he found cute weirdos charming.

Decompressing

The range of thoughts I get lost in, varies on the events of the day and the volume. Sometimes my mind is merely processing and sorting the overwhelming input it compartmentalized earlier in the day — other times it hones in on a specific inspiration noted in passing.

Today, it was the latter. Inspired by a besotted couple, I saw on the train. They were so… sweet and enamored with one another. In this genuinely blissful way that was discernible to anyone who took notice. They weren’t obnoxious or showboaty, just in it with one another in a way I hadn’t felt in awhile. I glanced at her hands trying to pinpoint which stage in the relationship they were in. It didn’t come off as a new, lustfully driven, infatuation-stage relationship, it read as sincere and familiar, with a hint of novelty. Then I spotted it — the novelty, in the form of a sparkling vintage sapphire diamond ring wrapped around her left ring finger.

Damn.

I miss that.

I miss being that in love.

Former/Future Love

It’s been a year and a half since my last long term relationship ended. Since I chose to walk away from a best friend who understood me on the deepest soul-soothing levels but did not know how to respect or protect our relationship during conflict. It was a dealbreaker for me. I did the healthy thing, post-break up. Took the initial 3 months to detox from the instinctive desire to text or call him throughout the day, as I’d done every day for the past 3 years. Then I took the next 9 months to process, find myself again as a person (without a person), mourn all the first firsts I had without him, focus on family, friends, community, work, and working out — all while on a necessary dating hiatus.

I've been fortunate enough to have some pretty great loves in my life — and some equally great heartbreaks. They each came with their own set of adventures, challenges, and lessons, as they should. Although none of the former paramours stood the test of time, I still value the love and joy they brought to my world. As well as, the personal growth they each sparked. That said, I am at a point where I am over the rough drafts and ready to find the real deal.

I am ready to be in love again.

Generational Traitor

It feels almost criminal to admit that in this current socio-political climate. As a modern, independent woman who technically does not need a man to thrive, it feels like a sin to admit I want a man by my side. Not need, want. What’s that line in Clueless? “I don’t wanna be a traitor to my generation…” I keep hearing that in my head as I write this. Sometimes I feel that way, as if I am a traitor to my generation because as much as I rally for progress, I still yearn for certain elements of “old fashioned” romance. Regardless of my potential traitor status, I want a man – a great love/partnership in my life.

Although I can do it by myself, I don’t want to.

Does anybody, really?

Can’t a man just tip his hat to me and call me Miss, damn it?!

Those that I know who have chosen to go at it alone, seem to choose it less out of desire and more out of practicality or resignation. Some appear to have convinced themselves doing it solo is their preferred choice, noting it’s easier when you don’t have to compromise with another. There’s truth to that — relationships are often not the easier or more convenient path. The building and merging of lives with another is at some point, inevitably a pain in the ass.

Possible compromises:

• Relocating to be with each other or near one person’s family

• Going to couples counseling to learn compatible communication techniques

• Discovering a crush has an affinity for eclectic cat paintings and already owns 8 that they’re keen to decorate a home office with (true story - he’s really cute)

Compromise, when practiced effectively is a large part of what makes relationships worthy of trust and respect. It also linked to greater happiness and satisfaction in the long run — the more consistently we meet each other (equally for both individuals) in the middle, the more flexible our minds become.

Reluctance Meets Protest

Recently, I read some stats on how nearly half of young men have never been in love or ever approached a woman in person, I was equal parts bewildered that their biological instinct hasn’t overridden this, and sadly not surprised that this is the impact of modern technology’s suffocating presence — paired with the increasingly prominent gender wars. It’s no wonder movements are being launched furthering the divide between men and women.

It’s not just men, and it’s not just women, fear and disdain are ever increasing on all sides. Men don’t fear only rejection itself, as much as being designated ‘creepy’ and the potential reputational repercussions. Women, resent the lack of commitment and awareness surrounding the effort it takes to be a good partner in sharing the mental load of a relationship.

Additionally, few singles appear to be spending enough time physically around the opposite sex in order to contradict the circulating gender narratives with exposure therapy and their own critical thoughts. I’m realizing without these up front reminders which create confirmation that we are not all horrible humans, we’ll believe anything we read that highlights the disappointments of others.

“Every facet, every department of your mind, is to be programmed by you. And unless you assume your rightful responsibility, and begin to program your own mind, the world will program it for you.” —Jack Kornfield

It would be easy for anyone looking at the modern dating landscape to think that people have given up on love, but I don’t buy it.

If it looks that way, I suspect it’s more about what is being fed to us and our worry of bad relationships. With each new generation, we are becoming more risk averse. Combined with the reluctance and modern entitlement of not wanting to be inconvenienced by challenges and the inner work that is required to foster a healthy, secure relationship, it’s easy to see how this desire for convenience is sabotaging so many aspects of our lives — our love lives being one of them.

You could argue this disinterest in love is personality driven, after all not everyone desires or thinks about wanting to be in love – however, we’d be fooling ourselves to believe that technology, isolation, and cultural narratives haven’t drastically exacerbated the repression of our biological needs and the magnetism of love.

Love Sparks

The truth is, I miss being in love, despite all the head trash being thrown around. I find that love brings out the best parts of me. Being so into another person that every touch feels electric, every laugh euphoric, every commonality igniting the undeniable power of human connection — and that's just the beginning.

After the newness fades, a deeper intimacy propelled by acceptance and understanding develops. There are many sexy things in this world, but few top the feeling of being truly seen and understood by another person. (A really good first kiss is a close second.)

With love comes, the (sudden) flood of motivation propelled by a delicious cocktail of neurotransmitters and hormones. The urge to participate in cheesy bonding couple activities like complimentary pajamas or hiding a sweet note in their bag. Single me wouldn’t be caught dead in his and her pajamas, but relationship me tosses aside the cynicism and embraces the unabashed desire to romanticize someone's quirks and traits: the way they move their body, the way they notice yours or the way you fit so perfectly under their arm when walking alongside each other.

For example, I love the way a partner might become enamored with the way I crinkle my nose when charmed, or bite my lip when concentrating, or dance in the kitchen while cooking pancakes for breakfast. There’s something uniquely fulfilling about being seen for the in between moments. Not only the major milestones posted on LinkedIn — nothing else quite matches it.

All of these magical moments pop out in the beginning for a reason. They have to, so we can work our way to the greater depths of intimacy and be willing to stick it out when we encounter conflict. We need those doses of cuteness and charm to fuel our patience when working through the hard sh*t that tests our emotional maturity and empathetic capacity.

The Scam

Even if current cultural norms argue that love is a scam, giving us lists of all the reasons that relationships are toxic, a source of delusion, or hopelessly mired in gender wars and patriarchy, I (actually) think loneliness is the real scam.

I think division, isolation, risk aversion, convenience, talking and not acting, technology instead of intimacy, and believing we have no real power to change the things that weigh us down — all of that is the true scam.

Not that I would let it stop me from going after what I want, but in contemplating this topic, there’s a part of me that feels reluctant in declaring my sappy romantic sentiment and the idealistic, stubborn, hopefulness in me that is determined to find some way to turn my own words into action.

Onward

Despite the moments where I’m tempted to give up on love, I simply cannot. In the same way, I can’t give up the delightful ritual of contemplating love in the modern world until the sudden taste of metal on my tongue pulls me back into the present, away from my thoughts and deep inside my own tired body.

I set the empty spoon in the sink, use my thumb to wipe the residual peanut butter from the corners of my lips, walk back down the hallway to pick up everything I dropped before. “Onward,” I think – and I mean that in more ways than one.

Hang in there, Hopefuls xx