Let’s review who I dated in 2011.
57 started the year off proving that you can like all the same music, movies, activities and career paths, but if your values are different, it’s going nowhere. There was a slew of odd OkCupid dates. There was 66, the Degrassi actor/band member who stole my heart based on sheer adorableness. Oh, Canada. 67, the writer living in a communal space. And then of course 77. ”You’re my soulmate but I can’t date you.” Right. I’ll probably see 77 soon. I’ll see 66 on the 20th. I see 57 all the time. I dated 78 as what can only be defined as a rebound. In 2011, I only dated one person with a 9-5 job.
And now, my roster is clear. It feels fantastic. But I realized something over break: I’m ready. I’m ready for something pretty wonderful. And don’t you dare tell me it happens when you stop looking, because I spent 25 years not only not looking, but actively avoiding. As the song goes, I am “the kind that feels what she decides to feel when she is good and ready to feel it.”
I’m looking for more than artistic and interesting. I want someone kind. I want someone who doesn’t hate things arbitrarily. I want someone who calls their family and smiles when they answer. I want someone who doesn’t trash talk or make fun of things they don’t understand. I want someone who doesn’t assume the worst in people or in situations. I want someone kind and forgiving and hopeful.
I want someone who likes to create. To create meals, plans, and ideas. I want someone physical. Someone who can throw a punch, a ball, and me on the bed. Someone I’m proud to introduce, who inspires me and encourages me, someone I can believe in.
I don’t want someone petty, snarky, or pompous. I am an earnest and trusting steak-n-potatoes girl. I believe people and I trust them. I refuse to change that. I want someone who pays their bills, knows how to find a doctor, can fix a running toilet, can attempt to fix a sink.
I want someone who tells terrible jokes. I want all the dad puns in the world. I want someone who replaces the toilet paper when they use the end. I want someone who is comfortable ordering thai and having a Harrison Ford movie marathon. I want someone who is equally comfortable wearing a suit and taking me to a fancy dinner. Give me a reason to wear lingerie and I will wear it every day.
He must understand the religion of Pets; they are not inconveniences you give back to the shelter when they’re ill, they are family. I need someone tolerant. Someone who is willing to help me figure out how to be in a relationship. Someone with their own bedroom in a clean apartment. Someone no more than one train transfer away. Someone who calls me on my bullshit. Someone who knows things. Someone who trusts me. Someone with confidence. Someone with calm. Someone who lets me think I can protect myself just fine, but always, always protects me.
Someone who will fall in love with me, but will fall even further than that because then they’ll figure out how to resolve their hatred of suits and fancy dinners because they just want me to be happy. And I will reciprocate. I will watch baseball. I will drink dark beer. I will learn to cook something other than peanut butter toast because I love you.
And to him, this is how you’ll find me: I’ll be bopping to my tunes in the subway, I’ll be talking to myself about recipes in the grocery store. I’ll be attending any and every storytelling class and event in New York. I’ll order the Jameson & Ginger, and I’ll double check to make sure the sandwich has avocado, no mayo, and please, yes, pepperjack. When you ask me where I’m from, I’ll answer cryptically. My phone is cracked, yes I noticed. My nails are always chipped. I wear one giant championship-like ring on my left hand and a dirty, white watch on my right wrist. Yes, I noticed it’s dirty, no, I don’t care. I run the East River, I eat Potbelly’s on bad days, I idle by dog parks. I don’t sit on the subway, I sprint up the stairs. If it’s after 10 at night, I’m below 14th. If I’m above it, it’s because I have to be. Come say hi.