So I’ve started dating and I’m shocked by my own age. It seems impossible to me that the men that I meet, all lovely in their own way, by the way, are older than I imagined I would ever be. Where’s our future, I think to myself as I eat bar food with yet another sweet guy who is approaching an age I only ever associated with my grandfather’s. I excuse myself to the Ladies Room, sit down in a stall, rub my face in my hands, gaze at my reflection in the mirror, pray for a grip. Obviously, I’m much more wigged out than I thought I would be.
Because this time the invitation is not about creating a life with someone but about being in life, in the moment; encountering someone just as I am, and more uncomfortably just as he is. And I don’t know how to do it. I can be myself in all of the areas of my life that I have some practice; work, friends, family, any combination of the aforementioned Trinity is sanctified, sacred, unwaveringly smooth. But this new thing is about something stunningly re-orienting, lacking in any preconceived notions, completely and shatteringly different. And I’m not sure I like it.
Tough Shit, I think to myself. I’ll have no fear. And do it anyway.