I rounded the corner in my signature Ann Taylor grey coat and some bizarre composite of boredom and bundled nerves to meet Match Three.
That’s how my blind dates know to look for me. Well, by my clothing description anyway. “Grey coat and blue tartan scarf” is what I tell my matchmaker. She also tells them I’m a pretty blonde, but my roots are showing. And so is my anxiety. I’m weary of grey coats in winter and I’m already weary of this process.
So by now you’ve probably guessed Match Two didn’t work out. I ended it. It was the right thing to do. I know this because it didn’t hurt to say ‘goodbye’. Among friends he became known as Hot FBI Dad. To all (three?) of my readers, you know him as the guy who isn’t afraid of my love of the Second Amendment or my oversharing on the Internet.
I should’ve fallen for him. The guy who also has a red Jeep, has the patience to teach me how to clean my weapon and doesn’t mind my brutal honesty. He let me be me. How refreshing. There are not many men who can handle… this.
However, by date six I had gathered this was not a forever match and he agreed. He wants something less, I want something more. Perhaps it’s not fair, but I also couldn’t trust to give my heart away to someone who has never been in love. Show me your scratches, I’ll show you mine. Hopefully, together we’ll heal them.
Hot FBI Dad still thinks I’m “a fabulous free spirit.” He’s probably reading this right now so I’m supposed to tell everyone how hard he’s been working on his abs. For any interested ladies, it has very much paid off.
So this is how adults break up.
But alas, the conclusion of that journey has led me to round the corner to look for a tall guy with brown hair wearing jeans and a grey pullover. It’s not a lot to go on but I see a fella looking down at his phone conspicuously waiting on someone. Let’s call him Southern Charm.
He must’ve heard my heels click clack on the sidewalk—my trepidatious trot into the romantic unknown—because he whipped his head up and locked eyes with me.
Oh god. We’ve met before. The horror was transparent on both of our faces but just in case there was any doubt of our mutual mortification I pulled “a Rikki.”
”FUCK,” I kaboomed.
My profanity seemed to echo on the D.C. sidewalk. The “this is why I’m single” chant echoed in my head. I quickly recovered myself and dropped another f-bomb, but this time to assure him we were both going to be alright. “Fuck it, let’s get a drink and make the most of it,” I said with a false bravado. He held the door. I held my smile.
But we did make the most of it. We laughed and groaned at why it didn’t work out the first time almost two years ago. We commiserated over modern dating at our age and the resignation that because of our age, the children we may never have. Our legacies hopefully dependent on more than just our resumes, but on the stories we leave behind.
My matchmaker said that despite my floundering start he raved about me. He’s either desperate or I’m great at recovering. Still, I never heard from Southern Charm again.
I have three matches left in my service and a nagging feeling that I will be telling more stories that do not have the resolution my heart needs.
But oh, the stories I leave behind.