Try
But just because it burns
Doesn’t mean you’re gonna die
You’ve gotta get up and try, and try, and try ~ Pink, Try
On a Saturday in February I receive a text from my best friend: You have to stop working and go out of the house. You’re a cat away from being a crazy writer cat lady.
My mother on my birthday: You’re not going to hide out in your house and write books for the rest of your life, are you?
I answer evasively. I’m on deadline for the new book. No, but I’m just not ready. I have to concentrate on the girls.
But the truth is, I’m terribly lonely for adult companionship despite my passion for my work, both when my daughters are home and when they’re at their dad’s. I fill all that loneliness with work. I make up stories and give my characters the love I wish I had. And yes, I’m hiding out. Regardless, I tell myself, I need to heal, to go through all the stages of grief when a marriage ends.
In the endless night when I cannot sleep, I despair, thinking of all the years between now and the end of my life. I ask God � will I remain without the love of a good man? Will I never have that one person who is both best friend and love?
And the answer comes back.
You won’t if you don’t try.
I must try. Just this, try without expectation. So I go on Match.com.
I write myself a tagline: Author in search of love story
Online dating. It’s the thing everyone does now. And although it feels like being dropped into a foreign country where I don’t speak the language, I do it. I write a profile. I post photos. I browse profiles. I send a wink or two.
And emails come, expressing interest. Might they take me to coffee or for a drink?
I joke with friends to hide my fear � it will all be fodder for my writing. We say it almost snarky, anticipating men doing foolish things or acting like predators.
But this is not the case. Instead, I meet nice men, all of them just like me: lonely and yearning for love.
Most have been married before. Some have children still living at home, some are empty nesters, and a few have never had children.
We all have hearts that have been shattered, sometimes multiple times. There are stories of adultery, of surprise announcements at the dinner table, of staying too long for the sake of the children.
But we all have one thing in common. We’re trying. Again.
Sometimes their hands shake when they hold the menu. One taps his foot under the table during our entire date. Another walks me to my car after drinks and waits for me to find my keys in the bottom of my bag. They all say I’m pretty and interesting. They all pick up the check. One says I’m prettier than my photos. Some call again, others don’t.
My first date, over coffee, acts like an older brother, kind and sympathetic when he learns he’s my ‘first�. He gives me advice, sharing his own experiences, which have all been positive � every single woman I’ve met, except one, he admits with a wry smile, have been wonderful people. The chemistry wasn’t there, he says, but all in all good people. Then he tells me his own painful story. He listens to mine. Afterwards, he doesn’t call, and yet, it doesn’t matter. When I needed a man to be kind, to be gentle during one of my most vulnerable moments, he did that. I’ll be forever grateful to him. I wish for his second chance.
And here’s what I know now.
Amidst and around all this collective heartbreak we’re all just looking for that second chance and there is something moving and honorable and inspiring in this. Yes, this. That despite how utterly exposing it is to put ourselves out to the world like a dress on display at Nordstrom, and how unlikely it is to find someone we connect with and have chemistry with and have compatible situations, we’re out there, all of us, trying. Just trying. We all want to love and be loved. This longing to find partnership outweighs our fears and insecurities. Despite our failures and disappointments, we’re out there with a big sign disguised in our Match.com profiles, that say: here I am with all my baggage and faults and my big, damaged heart � come find me. And this, to me, is beautiful.
As for my ‘date’s � I won’t forget each kind gesture and word. I wish for them all their second chance. Just as I hope for mine.
