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| Artist unknown |
Last week, a bestie came over, and in between cackling about crafts and outfits and feminism, she said something I thought was pretty great. She said, "I'm speaking this into being," and then proceeded to describe a sweet little date scenario, with a a specific type of date on her arm. I was like, "yes, do this magic spell on my front porch!" and we both cackled some more.
I don't know about manifesting. It feels very woo, but it also seems to work sometimes. This spring, the car I learned to drive on was dying a slow death, and after dragging her back into my driveway, I rolled down my window and said, out loud to the blue sky, "I need a new car." Two hours later, a friend texted me: would I be interested in hearing about a car she had a line on? You bet your ass I was.
On the other hand, if manifesting was that simple, I would like to formally request some more money (without anyone dying, thank you), the ability to sleep through the night, and a child who might one day like me again. I would manifest the time and motivation to regain my bangin' hot bod. I would manifest a housing situation that didn't feel slightly skin-of-my-teeth at all times. I would manifest a hot partner who was great at buying presents.
On that last note, I've been thinking about what type of person I'd like to date next. I feel very meh about dating right now—my brain is taken up with grief, still, about the end of my marriage and my sudden drop into single-mom life. But this week I also burst into tears listening to the Barenaked Ladies song "Enid," about a doomed high school relationship, so I know that there's something that needs to be addressed in this area.
I recently thought about how I'd like to have a relationship that feels like high school sweethearts, but without the inevitable slide into taking each other for granted. I'd like someone clean-cut but with a filthy mind. I'd like someone who will fall in love with my kid, too: I am part of a package deal now. I'd like someone who is excited about their own life, who likes themselves, who gives freely and generously and without keeping tabs. I want someone who is curious. I want someone with hobbies, especially maker hobbies—there's something so attractive about woodworking or sewing, you know? I want someone who is smart as hell and who thinks I'm funny as hell; those two things are related, of course. I want someone who is interested in me—who sees me as more than a mom/wife/fucktoy paper doll. I want solidity, dependability, but with spark. I am going to speak those things into being.
I don't want to play the comparison game between whoever is coming next and the marriage that came before. Suffice it to say that, when I was in my twenties, I always knew the deficits of my friend Lindsay's boyfriends by the guys she replaced them with. The slob was followed by the neat freak; the mean guy was replaced by the sweetie; the emotionally stunted was supplanted by the emotional tsunami. A savvy reader could go back to my list and see where the gaps were in my marriage; a smart reader wouldn't do that.
I feel skittish about dating, like I'm going to have to come at it sneaky-like. I haven't been single since I was 26 years old; before that, I had a bad habit of convincing myself that the guys I slept with were boyfriend material, despite zero evidence of either their long-term interest in me or of them being functional adults. It never occurred to me to factor in if I liked them; I just wanted them to like me. I don't blame them—being in our early- to mid-20s was hard for a lot of people, you know?—but I also know the rush of physical affection can be swept away by the disappointment of reality. I tend to fall fast and hard, and I want to protect my heart a little, even if the next person I date is an absolute golden retriever.
And besides: what am I even looking for? Pre-marriage, I was riding that relationship escalator hard. We met, we dated, we moved in together. I wanted to have a baby, because my biological clock had been ticking since I was 26. My boyfriend asked me to marry him; I said yes. We got married and had a baby, and I had checked the boxes that meant I was a person in the world. Someone married me! I had a kid! Proof positive that I was worth something, after all.
When all that fell apart, I finally internalized that if I was worth something married, I was worth something single, too. In fact, I had been worthy and worthwhile the whole time; I had just convinced myself that external validation was the only kind that counted. (Psych! Turns out it's the other way around. Thanks, therapy!) But I won't lie and say that being single at 40 is easy; it's just that being in a bad relationship is harder. And now I get to choose: am I on an escalator again? A dance floor? A Juliet balcony overlooking a garden? If I don't have anything to prove, what would I choose?
I think about the Billy Collins poem "Litany," that great song to the world and to a lover. I am the sea searching for a shoreline; I am also just a woman writing on a computer about the things she would like in her love if it ever comes back to her. It's a good time for me to think about what those things are, so I can keep an eye out for them in the world. Even if I'm not ready today, I will be one day. I am going to speak that into being, when it's time.
