So the other day I decided that in honor of St. Valentine, I would dedicate this month to blogging about love. Anyone who knows me personally probably would have an initial response akin to “‘Da fuuuuck? Are you okay?” And that’s fair because I’m not really known for being a doe-eyed romantic. In fact, I’ve been with Romeo for 8 months and that is the longest I’ve dated a guy since my high school sweetheart. In between, there has been every possible dating cliche- the bad boy who I dated to piss off my dad, the secret affair with the boss, the guy who I became quite literally addicted to until I was strung out and shaking, the best friend who turned into something more, the golden boy who I thought would rescue me from my life and then left me gutted, the adult frat boy who thought he could turn me into a Stepford Wife, the secret psycho who moved me across the country and then threatened to kill me; suffice it to say, the dissolution of each of these only left me with stronger and stronger resolve that love was for the birds.
Despite what you might think, this actually made me super fun to date but a terrible candidate for life partner. Let me paint you a picture: I almost never dated exclusively, like… ever; I can name on one hand the number of guys I’ve dated exclusively in my 30 years (the psycho was one of them… just let that sink in) and with very few exceptions, this was always my choice. I always thought the guys I was dating knew this, but usually there was some sort of revelation where they felt betrayed or confused by the fact that I wasn’t taking my grade A loins off the market for them. Weekdays were spent with me getting to do my single girl life – yoga, wine nights with the girls, catching up on Scandal, occasional dates with new randoms, while weekend mornings were spent in bed with the boy du jour reliving the previous night’s dinner that lead to too many drinks and wild stories between bouts of hungrily (or lazily, depending on the level of hangover) taking turns running our hands all over each other before going to get breakfast tacos. I accidentally, or at least subconsciously, created a routine that involved drinking, sex, laughing, food, and no commitment and they loved it because they thought I was just chill and casual. In their defense, I WAS chill and casual, but that was just because I didn’t like them enough to become unchill or uncasual.
Sometimes now, even in the midst of being wildly in love with Romeo, I miss those days. They were so simple. Attraction is simple. Lust is simple. Laughter is simple. Breakfast tacos are simple. Love is not simple. Don’t get me wrong- the magic spell that most people call love is very simple – oxytocin, serotonin and dopamine are wonderful that way – but love as a VERB? As a life? Not simple. Not simple at all.
So here I am, in bed all alone this weekend morning, weighing the choice between love and breakfast tacos.