At a family wedding last weekend, three different well-meaning family members told me it's time I started dating. No one said it obnoxiously. All three said it with love, and even with sensitivity. It's only been two years. And it's been two years. You're only 36. Maybe it's time?
Weddings motivate some people to try to scatter the hopefulness of love like grains of rice, like the bubbles that were popular for awhile, like the butterflies my sister considered having released at her wedding until she found out they die shortly afterwards. Here: look at this young couple, so much love and hope in their eyes. Now you try, too.
I have, twice. With my former husband Matt ("ex" connotes anger and bitterness that does not exist between us; we're dear friends, still), I had the traditional wedding, registry and all, the move to our own apartment, the attempt to set up a life together. Then I met A___, gradually understood I was lesbian, struggled through the grief of a separation and divorce from Matt. . .and then with A__, I had passion, a deep sense that soulmates actually do exist, the hope of a long life side by side, the planning for the future. Then she died. (That's a condensed version of eight years).
Sure, only 36. It seems most people haven't lived so many different lives already.
Yesterday, Matt and his second wife Sarah (as in, her name is Sarah, too) had their first baby. I'm happy for them. But maybe I can't help feeling a little self-pity, too. I am living life, I am moving forward (that's far more than I could have said about myself a year ago), and yet sometimes my sadness about living life alone overwhelms me. I never imagined I'd raise a child alone, or that I'd go to bed every night alone, or that I'd plan my future alone.
But my family is wrong that dating is the solution to my sadness. It's A___ I miss. It's A____ for whom I look on the streets, for whom I listen in new friendships, about whom I hope to dream when I fall asleep. If I'm always longing for her, it will never be fair to attempt a connection with someone else.
Anyway, I don't know how I'd even begin. A lesbian friend (in a long-term partnership) told me this weekend that Boulder's odd: progressive, open-minded, but entirely lacking in GLBT hang-outs -- no cafes, no bars, just a small "Out Boulder" office on 14th Street and Spruce, a few websites, an annual Pride Fest. Meeting someone here depends on chance, the eye contact that informs the other that yes, we are looking for the same -- the accidental brush of a hand that contains more fire than a stranger's would normally. My friend joked that maybe I should wear a sign announcing my identity so women could find me. A lump formed in my throat. I don't want that, I don't want that. I catch myself peering down the street, wondering when A___ will come striding toward me, her dark eyes sparkling with laughter; I wait for her to whisk me away to a place where we can finally be alone after all this time.
Another friend -- a straight one -- told me just yesterday to sign up with Match.com or to find one of the iPhone apps that match people with other interested people who are within 100 feet. I stared at her, incredulous. Really? You're too young, she told me, your life isn't over. DO something about it! You can't go the rest of your life with no sex, no one to hold you, no one to talk to at night.
I had to turn away to watch our children play together on the playground dinosaur. No, I don't think I can live the rest of my life that way, but I don't think I can allow anyone else into that space that I gave so fully to A___. It's true that I long to be touched -- just tenderly, lovingly. A dad at the playground reached up to move a strand of hair from my eyes yesterday while we talked and I nearly burst into tears at the touch, which would have startled him. How I miss the comfort of a body that loves me.
After my daughter went to bed last night, I actually looked up a few of the dating apps. Photo after photo of women, of varying ages, marketing themselves: "Looking for a friend and something more!" "Love to hike and have fun!" I don't belong in those web pages any more than I belong at a bar. And I'd much rather be at the bar, sipping a glass of wine, listening to music. I'll wait until Boulder has one. Maybe, when that happens years from now, I'll be ready for the next step. Not yet. For all my loneliness and my disappointment that I am so utterly alone in this life now, I am still in mourning. . .
