“You’re playing the field.”
I look in her direction, trying to determine exactly what she’s getting at.
“Me? Huh? What do you mean?”
“Well,” she replies, “I thought you wanted to settle down. You know, with a boyfriend.”
Hmm. I mull this over. She’s partially right, of course, ‘settling down’ IS one option, just as “staying single for a while and enjoying dates with various lovely boys” is another option. (Eloping in Vegas and joining a convent are a few others that I’ve considered in the past, but I think I’ve put them on the back burner as true choices as of late.)
“Well, yeah, one day I will. And with the right person, of course. But now? I’m not sure.”
While she looks at me incredulously, I start to consider her point. I DID want to settle down, and am sure that somewhere in my perpetually fickle personality this could again be the front-running option. But right now – well, not to turn all XY chromosome on y’all, but I feel like a kid in a candy shop, like a chick in a sausagefest. My formerly typical-girl dating behavior has somehow evolved into a much more California’d version, the laid-back alternative reality of how I usually am. Because, after three months of traveling and six months of living here, I think I’ve found my groove. I’ve figured out the appropriate concoction of social life and work commitments, and add in a dash of an early-spring tan and some fabulous out-of-town guests, and I’d say my little existence is doing just fine.
She continues to stare like I’ve grown another head.
I continue to mull.
“Is it that strange to hear me adopt this attitude? I’ve always been pretty laid back when it comes to guys – after all, it’s been how long since I’ve had a serious boyfriend and you don’t see me chomping at the bit, now, do you?” Surely I’ve got her with that data-driven point.
“I don’t know, it just seems…hmm, well, not like you.” She truly looks perplexed.
So great, I’ve apparently been a boy-crazy sex-obsessed girl we all love to hate? That’s a lovely depiction. I’m going to chalk up her obvious delusions to the fourth gin and tonic she’s consumed. That, or else someone should have had an intervention with me quite some time ago; say, back in third grade when I had a crush on Ethan Foster.
Am I really this pathetic? Or – more accurately – WAS I always this bad? I’ve always adopted the girl equivalent of “Bros before Ho’s” and take pride in my non-ditching of gal friends when my flavor of the month came along. And to that point, HAVING a “flavor of the month” should add credence to my argument, shouldn’t it?
“It’s just not that important to me right now,” I assert. “I’ve got so much going on, and after a few months on the road, I’m just starting to get used to San Francisco. I love hanging out with the guys that I am, but…well, not sure if any of them right now are suited to be the future ex Mr. Aubrey Sabala. you know?”
At this point, she begins to extol the virtues of Bachelors Number 1-4, not that she’s actually met any of them (which I of course point out immediately.) To her credit, she’s making some good points…Bachelor Number 2, in fact, really IS adorable (in that ‘looks like a grown up version of my future tow-headed child’ sort of way) and yes, Bachelor Number 3 DOES have the potential to be the front-runner if a) there was really a competition for this status and b) if he lived less than 3000 miles away. Her points? Yep – they’re valid, and for a second they make me start to think that perhaps I’m taking all of this a little TOO casually.
Reality smacks me in the face immediately. I didn’t enter into this lackadaisical attitude by chance; in fact, it’s been somewhat of a conscious decision. After a few months (years?) of being a bit (um, a lot) disillusioned by the perpetuated ideal of love and all that comes with it (thanks, television!) I’ve decided to try a different route. I still think that a lazy Sunday date is fantastic, but I’ve also come to turn a few of these down to hang with my best gal, Lila Belle, for a long afternoon walk. I think a side effect of now being (strangely, proudly) jaded on the whole notion of romance is the subsequent lack of emphasis we then can place on it. I’ve made myself my own priority, and if (and/or when) a dashing lad comes into the picture, he’ll have to fit into the life I’ve made for myself. And if he doesn’t? Well, there’s that whole “square peg in round hole” colloquialism – tongue-in-cheek tawdry pun notwithstanding.
“Trust me,” I assure her. “I’m fine. If it makes you feel better, it’s probably just a phase I’m going through…who knows? Next week I could have a big fat ring on my finger and be skipping merrily through the tulip fields.”
Even though I have my fingers crossed behind my back, I suppose it IS possible. Because, really, how fun would the conversation on who could officiate my wedding be?