Not another first date.


I’d seriously considered hand picking the weirdos again. That was moderately entertaining and made for some hilarious reading to go back to when I’m feeling lonely.

I kept trying to force myself to shift gears into dating or making some semblance of an effort to stop the eternal comparison between He-whom-I-want-so-badly and Mr. whoever is standing in front of me.

It’s just not working. Not at all.

I got a handle on the daydreaming, but nights are still an epic wasteland of insomnia or graphic dreams detailing everything I miss so much. I’ve never been so tortured. Consequently, I lose interest at the speed of light when trying to replace him.

At 9 PM, I’m trying to move on. I open the variety of apps and see the same thousand men who don’t interest me in the slightest. I found myself collecting men with a vague resemblance to the man I love, or worse…

With the same name.

None of my intentions are pure with that last one.

So I’m hanging up my high heels and packing away my makeup. I’m so stuck that I’m a contagious broken heart, ricocheting around other people who are looking for love (or ass, & don’t even get me started on those guys). I’m looking for peace. There’s a huge difference and I don’t want to hurt someone else in the process of feeling better. I’m not a selfish asshole anymore.

I just happen to be wildly in love with the wrong person. It happens. It’s frustrating as hell, but it’s far worse to start creating casualties as a result.

Because by 9 AM the next morning, I don’t want to even text them back. My phone is like a choir of beautiful, available men… all singing me their own version of compliments and dick pics in hopes that I will say yes.

They’re doctors, lawyers, pilots, students, farmers, fishermen, etc… The internet allows you to select from a vast range of men. Thin or thick, tall or short, smart or hot… it’s like a catalog. Dominant, intelligent, successful, funny men. Every bit my type.

The one thing they aren’t: is him.

I don’t want to be on a date with anyone else, and faking it or trying to is absolute misery. I owe it to my date to not be subconciously wishing he were someone else the entire time. That’s shitty.

So the Dumpling and I went to the farmer’s market yesterday and bought another dozen tomato plants… a few more peppers… some pumpkins, and so on. I filled up my garden like I said I wasn’t going to do, because it fills my time and my heart with joy.

A dozen dahlias? Hell yeah, why not?

But I’ll pass on the date, thanks.

I have hours to sit and think about him and it sucks, for sure… but sometimes the only way out of hell is to walk straight through the center of it. It’s been months… surely I’m near the damn exit?

If nothing else… I have: red and golden beets, kale and swiss chard, spinach, carrots,2 varieties of basil, 6 varieties of potatoes, 2 varieties of peas, shallots, strawberries, zucchini, a rainbow of dahlias, 18 varieties of heirloom tomatoes, purple and green pole beans, mammoth delphiniums, arugula, zinnias, and 6 varieties of hot peppers.

Ya know… since I promised myself I was going to have a small garden this year.

It is nothing short of therapy for me and after a busy day in the dirt yesterday, I already feel a little better. That could also be because I deleted all the dating apps and flushed all the creepy new aspects of online dating down the proverbial toilet.

I’ll take dirt over dick, any day.

Not exactly sure what I’m going to do with all the vegetables that will result from the emotional overplanting of a lifetime, though.

Perhaps a little emotional crutch canning later this fall?

3 thoughts on “Not another first date.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s