Essay: Woman in the dating pool
On empathy and earthworms
The final time my ex and I sleep together, I accidentally call him dad instead of daddy. It’s my first time trying out the term and all I can squeak out is one timid dad before my voice cracks. Two days later, we split. It’s okay, I tell him. You’re not my real dad, anyway.
“Dad” and I have been dating casually for several months. He’s a musician and, like every other man in Portland, is self-proclaimed avoidantly attached (but self-aware)! We want it to work even though we both know it won’t. He stays out until 2 am. I religiously need eight hours of sleep. He likes music festivals. I like bookstores. He has children, and I have lots of opinions on how to raise them.
We both like our lives. And we don’t want them to change.
I’ve now nearly been married 3 times over, so statistically there’s a good chance I’m the problem. Each time I've gotten close to tying the knot, my anxiety kicks on like a creaky radiator. I don’t know why I can’t settle into love. Lie down! I command my heart, but it just blinks at me like a deaf dog and wags its tail.
The thing is—I don’t regret ending any of my almost-marriages. Every time I left a man I couldn’t marry, I evolved in the most glorious, unexpected way. I bought a house, birthed a business, wrote a book, then built a dream life that allows me to travel, write, speak, and teach.