Die, Butterflies, Die


I moved this weekend. If my blogs haven’t been my very best for the past couple of weeks, I blame it solely on my distraction and pure frustration over looking at 6x8 rooms that I’d have to sell my ovaries to rent.

But it’s all gravy, baby because I finally found a nice place. The apartment is gorgeous and I’m in this great new neighborhood in the city that I’m dying to explore, and explore I will – along with some fresh dating options. Last week, I wrote about meeting guys in public places and trying to gage their potential. Now's the best time to take my own advice right?

Wrong. In the face of change, I yearn for a familiar one. I called up my former crush / friend, Jon, who was in a bar a few blocks away watching a fight with his friends, and told him to come over and act impressed with the furniture I put together all by myself (Cue Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman”).

So he rolled by and we hung out and listened to some reggae for a bit. Sweet, innocent fun and then a few kisses fueled by wine and the irresistible tug of comfort. It was flirts and smoochies until all of a sudden…

“Wait, stop,” I said, backing up a few inches. “I think you gotta leave. I have, um – more stuff to build.”

“Rajul, relax, I’m not going to invite myself to stay the night.”

Smart boy, I thought. He knows I don’t like man-whorishness. Come to think of it, he knows too much. He’s infiltrated the system. He’s got to leave before I want more soothing semi-backrubs. Too late.

“I know but you gotta go. I can’t get used to this,” I said, shoving him a little, third grade playground style.

“Why can’t you get used to it?” he asked. “I’m staying for another 10 minutes.”

I laughed at his tenacity. “I just can’t. You gotta go.”

“Okay, I’ll leave after the end of this song.”

I silently agreed and leaned back against him. I lost myself to the rest of the track – a Stephen Marley and Erykah Badu ballad, soulful beyond description.

After he left that evening, I unpacked some more clothes and wondered why we (self-possessed, relatively rational women) live in fear even after a painful breakup is a distant memory. We fear the scary past that could repeat itself. I’m even afraid of the good, because if I get used to that good, it could be snatched away from me. And that’s just no fun.

I used to be such a risk-taker, and now I’m like those people who Purell their hands every time they hop off the subway. Am I being too careful? Or could single men in this city be just as deceivingly filthy as the subway poles? Before I irritate any genuine New York men who may be reading this blog – I’ll readily admit that it’s the former.

So here’s the deal. Jon lives closer to me now. It’s easier for me to spend time with him (and a few other interesting prospects that have been on the fritz for a while) grab a beer after work, or even some nice home-cooked on a Sunday. But is easier necessarily a good thing? I’ve never based my dating choices on convenience before.

And I do drinks and dinner a lot, but bringing someone home and cooking for them (or vice versa) is intimate to me. That means I fancy you and you are special to me and I want to see you again. And I’ll probably want you to text me once in a while and be like "Hey Babydoll," Cupcake" or "Suga Booga," or all of the above.

Is it silly to have these types of expectations? Or to want to spray Raid at those naughty little butterflies that invade my stomach when my face is right next to Jon’s? I’m trying to hold out, trying to build back some trust in my own judgment, and for the guys I encounter. So I won’t spray just yet, but I’m ready and aimed.