My single lady status has been a subject of great consternation for those who know me in person. Let’s not start getting into the exercise of defining how long I’ve been single, because that’s just depressing and mean. If you are wondering, let’s just say that I have not been on a real date since what seems like the Paleolithic period. In fact, now that I look back, even that instance might not have been a date – all I remember is getting clubbed in the head and drug across the floor. Which coincidentally, is eerily similar to how I currently spend my Friday nights. Just sayin.
What I know today is that I can most assuredly tell you that moving to Vashon Island has not improved my chances for finding a date – let alone “the one.” The only unmarried people on this island are either widowed, children or gay. In fact, I am starting to think that the folks who live here are another species of hominid that finds the island to be a superb nesting ground perfect for raising the next generation of attorneys. I swear to God this is true! No seriously, there are a lot of attorneys who live here. I am actually starting to think that there are no divorcees here because because it’s too much hassle to get a divorce with everyone else being a lawyer and all …
My friends are convinced that I am not trying hard enough. I, of course, have been telling them that I am on a break. But when I mention the word “break” people always give me “the look” and say stuff like, “Girl, breaks are bad. You need to get back on that horse. You need to get out there. You need to rwah rwah rwah rwah.”
Breaks, apparently, are negative and conjure up things like break-up. prison break. broken. BREAK DOWN.
People, I have not broken down. I am on a break. Correction, I was on a break.
That was yesterday and today is today. I was actually writing to announce that “the break” is officially over. Several weeks ago I developed a crush on someone. A full on, I-am-listening-to-Lionel-Richie kinda crush. This has come at a good time because at the time I was seriously contemplating getting a few cats.
The crush was so official that I had told other people that I had a crush. They were, of course, delighted and relieved that I have resurrected some semblance of emotions again. And of course, they were completely over the moon that I have given them something new to talk about. As you can imagine, this was good news to all around.
Now you may wonder who this crush is. And if he knows. Or if it’s reciprocal. Or have we gone on a date already. Or made babies. Details! YOU WANT DETAILS! Simmer down people. Trust me, it’s not a big deal. The crush is already over. It’s was more like a practice crush. The kind that fills you with hope and makes you remember that there’s this whole other person in your head that you’ve been ignoring.
Happily, the object of the crush was actually inconsequential to the mechanics of the crush itself. Have no fear, there will be no chance of crying into big pillows with big weepy tears because of it. It’s fine and I am feeling quite practical about it all. But this little crush, this object of my affection, actually cracked open the little shell that’s been holding up my heart. As a result, the whole damn thing came unraveled and there I was, flooded with that feeling of eternal possibility, as best explained by this video:
Who doesn’t love that feeling? It’s the best feeling in the world.
So maybe the takeaway from this exercise is that I’ve realized that if you put aside all the clutter – I am good at love. I am not afraid of it. I am optimistic about it. Maybe I’m not the best girlfriend or wife material but I am really good at knowing how to love someone. Ask any of my close friends or my even my kid. They all know where they stand. That I love them.
And I may still not know if I have what it takes to make a relationship last though – I have a wandering eye, I have a secret obsession with celebrity gossip blogs and Jay-Z and I am terribly clumsy in most situations. I drink my coffee black and my bourbon neat, which is considered unladylike in many parts of this country. And sadly, I’m stubborn and have an enormous ego when I am not suffering from moments of self-doubt. I am a hot mess. But after growing up the way I did, raising a kid and being alone, I know what love means. I also know what it does not. And I am good at love.
So this mini-crush has successfully reminded me that that knot in my chest is actually alive and evolving. That the stifled beating is now gushing and ready for all kinds on sloppy, happy, ridiculous types of love. Love is all around me and there doesn’t have to be a grand illusions about happily ever after. I am gonna choose to focus on that feeling of promise and joy and all those good things that come along with new beginnings and technicolor.
I have a swagger in my step. And it’s about damn time.
Okay. I have never moved anywhere by myself before. I moved to Portland, Oregon with my high school best friend, Amanda. After a falling out, I moved to Kellogg, Idaho to be with a boyfriend. Then it was off to Denver to live with my sister and down to Colorado Springs to live with a boyfriend again. After a couple of years of boomeranging, I finally settled in Seattle because of – the boyfriend (surprise!).
Come to think of it, I’ve never been on vacation by myself. Or been to a bar where I didn’t know anyone. I’ve only been to a movie alone once – which, btw, I could hardly stand because I was watching Lars and the Real Girl and ended up crying like a baby because Ryan Gosling had gained all that weight and no longer looked like Noah Calhoun.
I really haven’t done a lot of adventuresome things as a single adult woman. I’ve played it safe. I’m just a talker. Or as my friend Teresa says, “all talk.” But I am trying to break the mold and become less dependent on the safety net of friends that I’ve created. Really. In order to get out of my comfort zone I live on a rural island, for pete’s sake.
So 30 days into it and I am starting to get a bit lonely. When you don’t have the distractions of the city, you have a lot more time to reflect on your life and how you want it to be. And sitting at home reading self-help books while sipping on a hot toddy because I don’t know anyone here is not exactly how I want it to be.
Oh God. Listen to me. Now I am really starting to sound like a Bridget Jones movie. All of the sudden I feel like I am going to a new high school but without the benefit of getting to see the same people everyday. I am the new kid on the block. Except here, the blocks generally have ONE HOUSE on them.
What are my options as an adult to meet new people? Knitting circle? Farmer’s market? Square dance? Barn raising? I know, I know – I am stereotyping here. But where am I going to meet men? The library? Singles night at Thriftway Market? Ladies night at the Red Bicycle Bistro the sushi/burger/fish and chips/nightclub? This is all so confounding.
Case in point – the other day Paige and I were at Perry’s Vashon Burger and an adorable man walks and the door, looks at me and says, “You should smile.” And I do. And he says, “That’s much better.” And I keep grinning, because I am an ass. But what else can I do? Slip him my number and mortify my teenager? Tell him I’ll see him at the hoe down?
And really, is this a joke? Do all the cute single men hang out at the burger joint? Though it kinda makes sense somehow – really? A burger joint that doesn’t serve beer? This must be some version of hell. There’s only so many burgers that this girl can eat. And I shouldn’t be eating any of them.
I looked at the calendar and I am in dread that it is already August 25th and I am literally drowning in my own dissatisfaction with the way things are going right now. Time is moving past me so quickly and conversely I am moving so daaarrrnnnn sllooooooowwwly. Throw in some story problem about how two trains are heading towards each other at different speeds and it will equal to exactly how my life feels. It should go something like this: “If Giyen equals “X” and the speed of the train equals “Y” and it’s 9:34 pm right now, what time will Giyen reach her destination?” NEVER. Giyen will never reach her goal because she’s too tired to do algebra right now.
I am starting to think the story of my life is beginning to look like a Brigette Jones sequel sans the naughty bits with Hugh Grant or Colin Firth (which consequently are the best scenes). I’m talking about the parts of the movie where it focuses on being a single thirty something who counts calories, reads self help books and wears bunny costumes at all the wrong times. Sadly, for some reason “Giyen Kim’s Diary” just doesn’t sing “blockbuster romantic comedy” so I don’t even have that to fall back on.
What I guess I am saying is that I am feeling a bit lackluster right now. And a bit lonely. Busy, but lonely. I told my friend Rene that I was destined to become the woman who dresses up her cats and calls them her babies and lets them lick tunafish off of her spoon. She laughed and then offered me few words of encouragement. She says that she just knows that there is “a Bill Clinton type” out there for me. I just haven’t found them yet.
Then I tried to throw her what I call the “soft pitch” about me considering online dating:
Me: What do you think of online dating? Rene: Ugh God. Those are the worst people. Me: What do you mean? Rene: They are the worst people to wait on (she works in a prominent downtown restaurant). Me: Tell me more. Rene: There is this one guy who comes in and sits at the bar. Every Tuesday and Thursday he brings his Match.com dates and tries to get laid. The other night things got so hot and heavy that he actually said, “I want to be in….” Me: OH GOD, STOP RIGHT NOW. Rene: Yeah. The bartender was so mortified that he had to run to the other side of the bar just so he wouldn’t have too see/hear the rest. Me: GROSS. Rene: And then there are the “It’s Just Lunch” people. They pretend like they are going to eat lunch but just sit there having coffee because they don’t really want to spend money on people that they just met two seconds ago. It’s horrible because they pretend like they are going to eat, but never do. Me: Please stop. Rene: Don’t get me started on the “SSS.” Me: Whaaat?? Rene: The Same Side Sitters. The guys that insist that they sit on the same side of the booth because it’s more romantic. Me: Now you really need to stop …
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