Sleepless in Seattle’s Sam would roll his eyes at me. He was willing to get back in the proverbial saddle, even after losing the love of his life forever. Me? Dating is like running. I’ll make any excuse to avoid it. I have weak ankles. I had a birth defect in my leg. I dehydrate easily. In any case, I’m not running and yet there’s that desire to do a triathlon someday. And yes I’m still talking about dating.
As I’ve said before(and many a wit or author has said), 33 is the age Christ was when he was crucified. It has always seemed an age for destiny to unravel its mysteries. I have been wondering if I am destined to be a single, slighty sardonic smartass with writer’s block forever. As I told Lisa this morning, my life revolves around three things: work, church, and my beloved circle of friends. I have a wonderful life. But sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.
I know what my problem is. I have shaky self-esteem. I experience moments of triumphant self-love when I read over my writing or hear the accolades from colleagues or reach out to a young person. I also experience bouts of pitying misery when I lament my weight and my plain/unconventional looks. When I’m out in bars, I feel like I’m back in seventh grade, worried and sad that I’ll be picked last for kickball or never asked to dance. Funny how those old wounds linger, that awful feeling of rejection. The world isn’t all magical Rome or warm Peru. And I am not merely a hard shell of togetherness.
Nevertheless, the restlessness has resurfaced. I’m done looking out windows and scouring the Internet for hope. There’s a world out there that may very well kick me in the teeth. Or something magical may happen.
I just have get back out.