Photo: J.V. Aranda At the beginning of 2014, the relationship I thought would lead to marriage came to an end. For the first time in almost seven years, I was alone. I knew breaking up was the right thing to do, but it was still terrifying.
He suggested an after-work drink at a cheesy bar in midtown, a spot I would never have suggested for a post-work drink, let alone a date. But I wanted to stay open, so I went along with it. When the day came, a throw-away Wednesday, I wasn’t all that nervous, but I wasn’t all that excited, either; his profile was as vanilla as his choice of bars. But I went because I felt had to be doing something. I wasn’t going to meet my next someone hanging out on my couch with Friday Night Lights.
Some were coffees. Some were drinks. Some were walks on the High Line. None of them were great. No one ghosted or said anything horrible; the chemistry was just off. Nice people, but not for me. It was jarring to connect with someone online and then having nothing to say to them in person. Some of them were hilarious via text but confusingly shy when we met; others seemed sweet and kind online but self-involved in real life. It was tiring, sometimes even maddening.
Their values went completely against mine and yet I ignored them all, for fear of never meeting anyone else. In doing so, I tolerated a hell of a lot of bad behavior. Ghosting. Cheating. Not confirming plans until the very last second. Excessive drinking. This went on for two years, and then I hit my breaking point.