Yeah, this is my swan song, the last column, the end of the road, the buck stops here.
I was toying with the idea of quitting a few weeks ago, as you might recall, and the dream has now become reality…and not for the reason I gave back then for wanting to quit, which was that Catalan Man knew the URL for this column, so why give him a Being John Malkovichian pass to see the dating world through my eyes when I can’t see his? Why open myself up for a vulnerable tell-all, where he will either:
a. See that I’m not dating anyone else and he’ll rest easy with that thought while he leans back on brilliantly-colored silk pillows under a tent while his harem of 8 Victoria’s Secret supermodels rip off his jeans with their teeth simultaneously
b. Or worse, he’ll see that I am dating and then get jealous or mad or feel like I’m not as into it as he is and I’ll therefore hurt his feelings and potentially screw up a really amazing romantic and storybook romance?
Now, the reason is this:
I can’t write a “single and looking” column if I’m not either of those things.
And I’m apparently not.
How did this come to be, you may wonder, especially after I was so itchy scratchy last week and actually contemplating dating this Preppy McPrepperston Anthony guy last week?
Well, it went like so:
I wrote last week’s column and sent it in, feeling a little uneasy about it. Catalan Man and I had agreed to having a technically “open relationship” while we were apart, as neither of us felt right imposing monogamy on each other after such a short and untraditional courtship, but I still felt odd publicly declaring that I was Officially Back On The Market Boys, Look Out!
Part of me was afraid that he’d be hurt by reading it, of course (even though I actually cast him in a very good light and this Anthony guy looks like a total no-nothing jerk-off compared to my bright shiny Catalan Man).
But the real reason for my angst about the column is that I just didn’t feel honest writing it. Or rather, my desire to look around wasn’t coming from an honest place within me. Even though yes, I was getting ants in my pants about he and I being so far apart and <said in a slightly constipated but horny voice> a woman’s got NEEDS, I didn’t want to date anyone else besides Catalan Man, and if I actually did go through with a date, it would be for purely defensive reasons: find someone else to keep me warm at night before he does the same. Dog fuck dog.
No, no, no! That’s all poppycock. That’s not cool. And that goes against the initial promise I made to myself when I took on this column: to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter how much of a bleeding heart douchebag it makes me look like in public and make everyone laugh at me and then I’m going to be so humiliated that I’ll pee my pants and then they’ll laugh at me even more, so help me God.
And he and I also made a promise to each other when he left NYC a month ago: that we’d air to each other any grievance, any doubt, any loneliness, any frustration, anything we were feeling, when we felt it, so we could stay connected to each other from so far away. Only way to make it work, we both agreed.
So I had to talk to Catalan Man about the column, obviously, and I had to do it soon, before he stumbled upon it on his own without warning.
I spoke to my married friend Ana the night before I called him to piece everything together and get her (always spot on the money) advice (how does she DO that?!).
She gave me a “circling the wagons” speech, which I think meant that you become a unit of one once you fall in love, and you usually can tell right away if that’s in the cards in your future, and if it is, stop this willy-nillying around and just get on the damned horse and ride away into the Western sunset together with your wagon and provisions and rifles and smallpox-infested blankets already.
So, steeled in my wagon-love for Catalan Man, I ask, “Are you ready to have a serious conversation?” about 30 minutes into our Skype session the following evening.
Through the videophone, I saw him sit up straight and get a more serious and stressed out expression on his face. “OK…..” he said.
“Well,” I began, “I wrote my dating column for this week, and I bring up the idea of dating other people, and I wanted to talk to you about it.”
He sat up even straighter. “OK…..” he repeated, looking uncomfortable and bracing himself for whatever I threw his way.
“Well, I’m wondering…should I be dating other people? I mean, I’m getting offers now, and…I dunno….should I take them up on it?”
He responded that he certainly wasn’t in a position to tell me what to do.
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t know what’s going on with you, and not knowing is kind of driving me crazy, I mean, I guess I need to know where I stand….because….” oh my God I was really going to say it and be vulnerable and open myself up for major disappointment but it’s already coming out like a big burp or a fart and it’s past the point of holding it in and ohhhhhhhh here it comes:
“….and honestly, I just don’t want to date other people. Because I’m in love with you and I’d be constantly comparing them to you and they could never measure up to you.”
He smiled. He waited a second to soak it all in before he said,
“So you want to know if I’m dating other people, is that it?”
“Yeah,” I answered, obviously inwardly conflicted. “I mean….I don’t want to know, really….but….I guess I have to.”
I wish I had a “record” function on Skype because I think I could listen to the following words 1,000 times and never ever get bored of hearing them:
“I’m not dating anyone else. Because I know they would never measure up to you, either.”
The corners of his mouth---oh, that sweet, thick-lipped sensual mouth that delivers delicious kisses and Catalan-accented sweet nothings whispered into my ear---pulled upwards into a sentimental smile and his eyes crinkled softly while he fixed his gaze at me though his webcam.
I couldn’t stop smiling and looking at him, too.
We had leapt into the void.
And we had executed a perfectly choreographed somersault-tumbling maneuver right before we hit the ground and saved each other and saved the day, us then standing on the Gold Medal tier at the Olympic awards ceremony, hugging each other close, our hearts filled to the brim with every emotion known to mankind, the national anthem of Catalunya, “Els Segadors” swelling to a fever pitch while Whitney Houston circa 1991 belts out “The Star Spangled Banner” in perfect Catalan/American harmony, and we both bow our heads down low so the official can reach up to us to hang our medals round our necks, the gold gleaming magnificently against the blazing glittery red of our matching unitards.
We are wearing matching red unitards and we are in love.
I wonder if it’s not a coincidence that I fell in love with a man while writing this column and while he lives a half a world away. Both situations demand self-examination, honesty with oneself and a lover, and cutting to the chase.
I wonder if vowing to be true to myself (and to you, my loyal readers) helped me find my true love.
I wonder if the world really IS that crazy of a place, where two souls’ paths can intersect for a split-second, against all mathematical probability in the universe, and combust right then and there, changing their composition from their original elements into something else entirely, never existing as quite the same person in the world from that moment on.
Thanks to everyone who’s been reading along and has been a silent (or not) companion to my dating adventures. I hope if there’s any message I can leave you with it’s this: that love can bite you on the ass when you least expect it, and even though you may think you’ve lost all sensation in your ass because there’s so many calluses on your ass from falling on it all the time, you haven’t, and it will hurt, and you’ll be surprised that it will hurt, but it will hurt really good, and I hope you will enjoy it and be open to it and trust it and trust yourself and let yourself fall as truly, madly, deeply in love as you want to fall.
This is JoJoDancer, Your (Love) Life Is Calling, signing off.