Why I'm Giving Up the Chase (and You Should Too)

Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.
This quote has stuck with me for a good, long time and I think I finally understand why.

Beautiful things don’t ask for attention. They exist, they flourish, they grow. They exude something—a boldness, a confidence, a grace that simply can’t be ignored. Their beauty isn’t simply skin deep–it’s internal, it’s everlasting. It doesn’t need to ask.
This is the way I want to live my life.

Now, I’m not saying I think I’m beautiful. I, just like every other living, breathing human being, have things I would really, really like to change about myself. I have the nose of a hobbit, I have the face of a moon, and those thick thighs I was talking about yesterday, hell, I think I’d be way better off without them.
But still, I have worth.  I am grand.  I am important.
I deserve love.
And one day, I want someone to tell me that.

This is something everyone, absolutely everyone, should experience in their lives, at least once (and more than once, if I’m being completely honest). Every single one of us deserves to have someone stand in front of us, their feet firmly planted, their voice unwavering, and say, “I want you.”
I want you. I want you. I want you.

That is, perhaps, the most beautiful thing this life has to offer. To be desired by another human being, fully, unapologetically. To just be wanted, to just be loved.

It’s something I want desperately.
And it’s something that, up until this point at least, I have searched for and I have searched for hard.
I constantly think about the when and how and why of my falling in love. And I have thought about it for years. I’ve thought about it since the time it was appropriate to think about it—we’re talking 7^th grade, we’re talking forever.
I’ve been so fixated on it—this thing I want most—and as years pass and I continue to not get it, it’s started to hurt and burn and ache.

But beautiful things don’t ask for attention. Beautiful things cannot be chased. And for the first time in my life, I actually get that.
I’m giving up the chase, guys.
I’m giving up the trying to fit square pegs into a round hole. Every single guy I’ve ever gone out with (the number of which is, admittedly, almost embarrassingly small), I’ve put on this pedestal. I take personalities I like, traits I like, faces I like, and bodies I like, and I try to turn them into love.
It never works. And it never will.

Because beautiful things don’t work like that.
Love doesn’t work like that.

Love and that beautiful, carnal, unstoppable pull you feel for another person can’t be built. It simply exists. It simply survives, it keeps fighting and breathing and grasping against all odds. It flourishes. And reaches out and grabs you just when you’re least expecting it—only when you’re not looking. It’s the sort of beauty that just knows, the sort of beauty that lives in the center of your chest (or a little bit to the left), the sort of beauty that thuds against your ribcage—a heavy, unrelenting bump, bump bump. The sort of beauty that desires, and yearns, and wants.

It doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t have to.
It’s just there—this beautiful thing that wants you and finds you (yes, you) wholly beautiful too.

The Almost Relationship and Why It Hurts So Much

Almost.
Almost. I hate that word. To me, there is absolutely nothing worse in this world than almost. It’s a tease. It’s a snub. It’s false hope.
You almost had exactly what you wanted. But then, you just… didn’t. And there is literally nothing you can do about it.
Don’t even talk to me about almost—it just makes me so mad. It just makes me so sad.

Almost can strike just about anywhere. You almost get the job. You almost get in. You and your roommates almost order pizza.  But there is nothing more terrible than the almost relationship. Everything is always worse when your heart is involved.

Here’s the thing—relationships end.
Now, I’m not saying they all end. A lot of relationships are strong and stable and last a good long while (i.e. forever). But relationships do end. It’s a simple fact of life. And despite the somewhat ambiguous and cursory nature of the almost relationship, those end too.
And I think those endings might be kind of the worst.

There’s something about all that almost that leads to a whole hell of a lot of feeling. When you’re just getting started with someone new, your imagination runs wild. All rational thought flies out the window—so what we’ve been on two dates? We are totally 100% going to fall in love and be together forever. Yes, it’s naivety. Yes, it’s foolishness. But it is so totally wonderful and if I had one wish for the world (besides all the other wishes I’ve got—the first of which would be to rid myself of all student loan debt—yeah, I am selfish), it would be that people would be free to imagine; that they could daydream and wishful think to their stupid, foolish heart’s content.
 

When you fall (or start to fall) for someone, all of that thinking (wishful or otherwise), all of that feeling, all of that hope gets totally intertwined. Somewhere, deep down, you know that nothing is a promise. But you can’t help yourself—you see a future (even if that future is just for tomorrow), or you imagine one at least, and it all just seems so absolutely and completely fantastic that okay, yeah, maybe you get a little bit carried away.

So, when this person goes away (usually by slowly fading out of your life), it’s like getting the rug pulled out from under you. Actually, no, it’s more like getting your future taken away from you. All at once. And nobody even asked first.
I know that sounds terribly dramatic and hell, maybe it is, but ask anyone that’s ever lost an almost—they’ll tell you it’s the truth.

The thing about it is, you haven’t even really gotten your footing yet. You’re still in that wide-eyed, candy-heart, everything is great, daydream mode. You’re not thinking about all the reasons why maybe you two aren’t compatible. You’re thinking about how cute they look in the morning, how much you want to kiss their freckles one by one, how you’ve got to remember to recommend that book to them, how fun it would be to, oh, I don’t know, take a trip to Rome with them and eat pizza under the stars. You’re all about all of those tomorrows.
And those tomorrows aren’t ever going to come.

It hurts.
It hurts like a bitch.
Because letting go is hard. But letting go of the thing you never really had is harder.

Breakups are bad. Even in the most positive of circumstances, breakups are really, really bad. You have to say goodbye to a whole chapter of your life, you have to say goodbye to someone you loved, to someone you still really care about. But what happens when you have to say goodbye to a chapter of your life you haven’t even written yet? That’s when you start to fixate. You dive headlong into some imaginary world and you tear it apart, thinking about everything, absolutely everything, that could have been, trying to figure out exactly where everything went wrong.

You have to move forward.
But moving forward is really damn hard when you can’t get any closure.
And it’s even harder to get closure on something that never really was.
Eventually though, you will move on. I promise you this—and take it from me, I’ve been there (and I am one hell of a fixater). One day, after weeks of thinking about all that almost, almost all the time, you just won’t. Yeah, from time to time, you’ll still look back on that time in your life, look back on that future you imagined for yourself, and it’ll sting.

But for the most part, you’ll be over it.
You’ll be ready for some new future with some other someone.
And this time—fingers crossed, at least—there will be nothing almost about it.

I Went on the Worst Date Ever So You Don't Have To

I went on a date last night.
And it was, without a doubt, the worst date ever. Not just of my own, sad life. No, this was the worst date ever, of all time, of all dates. Okay, so admittedly I wasn’t taken or murdered, which clearly would constitute the actual worst date ever but I spent about 98% of the thing wishing I were dead so I think that says a lot.

The thing is, up until this point, I thought I’d already been on the worst dates ever. Yes, dates. Plural.
One time I went on a date with a guy who spent a full hour telling me all the things I should change about myself to actually attract a man (I’m not entirely sure why he wanted to go out with me in the first place if he thought I was so awful but whatever). He tried to kiss me after. One time I went on a date with a guy who suggested we get Taco Bell for dinner (I know, I know), had me drive us there, and then didn’t even pay (or offer to pay) for my Bell. (Like, that shit is six bucks and under—if you can’t afford that, you should not be dating. Period.) He also tried to kiss me after. One time… well, you get it. I’ve been on some doozies. But this bad boy, it took the whole damn cake. And I am so ready to talk about it. Buckle up, y’all. Things are about to get rouuuuuugh.

Anyway, I sort of blame myself. The guy had a flip phone. Not that there’s anything wrong with that but… oh, who am I kidding? If you are under the age of 75 and still have a flip phone, something has gone terribly awry.And it was about to get worse.

So, we’d planned to meet at a diner near where he lived. He picked the place because I am, and always will be, a poor decision-maker. Let me reiterate, he picked the place.
I showed up. I sat down. He was late. He was really late. Finally, he called. Broski was at a completely different diner. Broski attempted to find the diner I was at. Gave up. And made me leave to find him.
I mean, it’s whatever—I’m easy-going! Things are hard to find, especially when someone has to resort to following the stars to navigate (Get. A. Smartphone.). Sadly for me, the somewhat dour diner staff was not overly pleased that a girl had sat in their establishment for over forty minutes without ordering anything. Not even a drink. I left a tip.

 

Fast forward and I’m at the second diner. We sit. And we’re off to the races.
This guy, and we’ll call him… Mike (because that is his name—sorry, sucker), apologizes for the confusion.
As I mentioned before, it’s no big deal so I say in response, “I literally could not care less. It’s totally fine.” Cool—moving on. Nope.
“What do you mean you literally could not care less? Are you saying that you may have figuratively not cared at one point?”
I HATE PEOPLE THAT DO THIS. IF YOU DO THIS, GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME RIGHT NOW BECAUSE YOU ARE A SELF-IMPORTANT DOUCHEBAG AND YOU RUIN EVERYTHING.
So, yeah, we were not off to a great start. 

Now, I could totally go through every solitary second of this date because it is seared on my brain forever like some accidental tramp stamp after a drunken night out but I don’t want to do that to you.
Instead, I’ll give you some highlights.
Enjoy.

Me: So do you like being a vegetarian?
Mike: Do people only do things they like, Meghan?
Me: Um, no. I just meant…
Mike: Because if people only do things they liked, Meghan, none of us would be very far.
Me: Right, I just meant…
Mike: Do you understand what I’m saying?
Me: Yes. Clearly you have chosen to be a vegetarian because of a set of personal beliefs therefore, by following those beliefs, and not eating meat, you’re probably sort of happy because you’re doing what you want to do.
Mike: Oh good, I knew you’d get there eventually.

 










Later…
Mike: I got a second job picking blueberries. (I mean really, why????)
Me: Oh, don’t you get really hot? Is summer your favorite season?
Mike: I don’t believe in having favorites. Having favorites is something idiots do. Why would I have a favorite when I could just tolerate everything equally?

Even later…
Mike: Are you not going to finish that?
Me: Nah, I’m pretty full.
Mike: Meghan, I will not leave until you finish your meal. I do not tolerate food waste.
Me: Well, I mean…
Mike: Eat it.
Me: No. I’ll take it home. I’ll take this one, solitary sausage home.
Mike: You cannot take it home. What if they give you a Styrofoam container? I don’t know what’s worse—Styrofoam or your selfish food waste.
Me: Well, cool, we’re in luck because I don’t give a shit about either of those things. I won’t eat it and I won’t take it home. It’s a win-win.
Mike: Look at you standing up for yourself.

 

Finally, finally it ends and Mike walks me out to my car. I am praying to everything that this man stops talking to me and leaves me alone forever because I truly have never disliked anyone more.
Not a chance.

Earlier in the night, we’d talked a little bit about ghosting (after I explained what it was—this man was a literal dinosaur. Yes, literally)—the pros and cons of it and our personal preferences.
Mike: So, what would you do if I ghosted you? I think I might.
Me: Be my guest.
Mike: You see the thing is, Meghan, I hated meeting you and I don’t ever want to see you again.*Long pause*
Mike: It’s not your fault. I just hate meeting people. You’re alright though. Maybe we could be friends? I had an okay time. I just think I would be okay never seeing you again, you know?
Me: Yep. Do you, man.
Mike: Let’s shake hands.
We shake hands.
Mike: You have a firm handshake. **Launches into forever-long diatribe about feminism. Patriarchy! Let’s take it down**
He walks away.
Turns back.
Dear Jesus above, save me from this actual living nightmare.
Mike: Let’s hug it out.
He hugs me.
Mike: Have a nice life, Meghan.
 
So, I win, right? I win the worst date ever.
I can officially take an OkCupid/Tinder/Match/eHarmony/Christian Mingle/Black People Meet/J. Date victory lap because I actually did it. I met the weirdest living human. I went on the worst date in history. And nobody died. I win. Yay?

This Is How I Want to Love You

I want to love you on a Sunday. With rain pelting against the windowpane, your toes sticking unceremoniously out from under the covers. I want to listen to you grumble as I bounce up and down beside you, always an early riser, ready to start our day, a day that belongs to the two of us, just the two of us, together. I want you to pull me down beside you, muffling my chatter with a sloppy kiss, the type that misses but somehow still falls just right. And with that, I will snuggle into the side of you, putting up a fight that isn’t, before melting into your skin that smells like sleep and you and me.

I want to love you when we’re fighting. When the anger comes coursing through, when words get spat instead of spoken. I want to watch you, a bundle of passion, a bundle of nerves, electric, loud, loud, loud, trying to find a way to explain just the way I hurt you. I want to feel that fire, close enough to get burnt. Because love, real love, is the type that stings sometimes, the type that speaks truths you never want to hear, the type that aches just a little bit all of the time. I want to bite my lip the way you like and then, just as fast as it started, I want my whispered apologies hot against your ear right where you can feel them.

I want to love you on a Tuesday, that Tuesday, the one where absolutely nothing went right. I want you to come home to me and find me shattered on the floor. You’ll fall down beside me because my pain is your pain, because your arm on my back is the only thing that helps. I want you to talk me through it, making promises–big ones we both know you can’t keep,  making promises–tiny ones we both know you can. I’ll smile, the first all day, the type of smile that feels like you’re cracking right down the center and you’ll kiss me there because words can’t quite express all you want to say. Then, we’ll get pizza from that place that’s just a little too far away but is the best in the city (well, depending on who you ask) because walking those too many blocks with you is my absolute favorite thing.

I want to love you when it’s inconvenient, when you’ve been in a grump and you just can’t get out of it. When the summer heat is sweltering and work is relentless and your car died again and everything sucks. I want to be miserable with you because hell, misery loves company and I love you. I want to let you stew. I want to get annoyed. I want to want to shake you and make you be yourself again. But I won’t, instead letting you feel the way you want to. Because that’s what I signed up for when I said I’d love you.

I want to love you at 4 am, any day, every day. I want to love you when you can’t shut your brain off, when your latest idea, this latest flash of genius just won’t quit. I want to talk to you, want to watch as excitement flashes through those plain brown eyes (the ones that totally have my heart despite being quite unremarkable), as you sprint and wiggle and write and try, try, try to figure something out for the first time but certainly not the last. I want to love you as the sun rises, even as I know my lack of sleep is going to hurt. I want my day to be made, even though I never really got a night.

I want to love you at my worst. When I say the wrong thing, when I text back too quickly, when I don’t text back at all. I want to make bad jokes, the type even you can’t laugh at, the type that make your heart feel like bursting because, and you don’t know how this happened, you really love this nerd. I want to love you with all of my faults, with my quick temper and my fear of getting too close. I want to let you see me, really, even when I know exactly what you’re going to see, even when I’m sure you’re not going to like it. I want to love you with my knobbly elbows, with the way I snore (except… I totally don’t), with every denial and every bit of defensiveness. I want to love you freely, with all of me, so that I can, in turn, love all of you.

I want to love you on a Sunday, when you’ve fallen back to sleep. I want to listen to the sound of your heart, that enthralling beat, beat, beat that keeps you alive. I want to lay there, uncovered and uncaring, just waiting for you to wake back up again, wake up so that we can make eggs, so you can make eggs when I mess them up (as I always tend to do). Always a little bit too close to each other, skin on skin when skin has no right to be in contact, I want my feet on yours as you read the paper. I want your hand on mine as I lazily flick through the channels, putting off getting a shower so I can stay in my pjs all day, putting off getting a shower so I can look at you in your pjs all day, your skin still smelling of sleep and you and me, in a way that lets me know I’m ingrained in you.

This is how I want to love you. Unapologetically, selfishly, wholly.

And especially on a Sunday.