Hope

I think if I still lived in South Carolina, I would be described as tender-hearted. And it would not be a compliment. It would be like when you say, "Bless her heart," while watching someone from New Hampshire try to figure out grits.

Tender-hearted is too easily given to feelings. I think my feelings are bigger than the rest of me put together. If I could get rid of some of my feelings, I think the first one I would get rid of wouldn't be anger or sadness or jealousy. It would be hope. I hate hope. Hope is the thing that kills you.

I know that's an expression commonly used in soccer-football but since it's the Superbowl here in America, it feels appropriate.

I had a date tonight. My friend Abbie gave me this beautiful necklace a few days ago that she said helps manifest love. For the first time in a long time, I actually felt hopeful... I mean, not that I was going to fall in love on a first date, but like -- hopeful that I could even still feel positive about a date at all after 10 years of shit. 

This morning at the studio, I thought of a bunch of reasons it could go poorly, and mostly I thought of those because this guy was really cute and worked on infrastructures to help reunite migrant workers with their children, which seemed amazing. Lala, who teaches the yoga class after mine, told to me to have 0 expectations, so that's what I tried to have.

After yoga, and shopping for new climbing shoes, and running errands, and cleaning my house, I had nothing left to do but get ready for my date and head there early.

Only he texted me to change the time. To later at night. On a Sunday. When I'd told him I can't do late because I get to school at 6 a.m.

I stared at my phone, dumbfounded, mostly because he wasn't even apologetic about it. We were already going to a place he picked because it's close to him and his friend works there (and gives him a discount, and I assume, vets all his dates). He picked the date, time, and place, saying he'd be football-ed out by then. And then he just changed his mind.

Initially, I said I couldn't do the new time, maybe another day. But then I got upset. And it wasn't really even this poor bastard's fault, he can't help my overly large emotions. If I had to guess, I'd say he's newly single, playing the field, and canceling on someone isn't a big deal because he knows there are a limitless supply of cute single women just around the next swipe. It's not his fault that the last 10 years have yielded A) a total lack of chemistry, B) a series of unavailable men or C) a string of situations exactly like this one.

So when he said, "No problem, another time" I was like...

"I gotta be honest: I was really looking forward to meeting you, but I was already leaving St. Charles early to meet at this bar you picked for its convenience, and changing the time threw me for a loop. It doesn't really feel like a good fit anymore."

And that was the end of Michael. He was like, "Shoot, sorry." 

I finished the drive into the city and found two of my friends who had just finished a meditation class. They were bummed on my behalf, but I don't think they understood the depths of my depression. I felt weird talking about it with a dude I don't know well standing there.

They were glad I'd stopped by and then started to leave.

"You aren't going anywhere," I told Sarah, because this seemed like a Sex in the City style emergency- diner- meeting if ever I saw one. "You're going out with me. Look at me. I need wine."

"I can't! My -- the person I'm living with is making me dinner!"

"Then YOU'RE going out with me," I turned on Abbie.

"I'm at work!"

I would like to say that neither of those are very good excuses, only they are.

I texted Lala. "You live down here! You told me not to have expectations. I didn’t know expecting him to SHOW UP was an expectation! Can you go out for a glass of wine?"

"I'm sorry, I'm at the hospital!"

I was becoming increasingly distraught, so I decided to go on my fucking date by myself. (Oh, and don't worry about Lala, she works at the hospital). I was all dressed up. I'd looked forward to this date all weekend. I was going to that fucking bar in Clayton and I would drink wine and read about yoga nidra and write sequences, godammit. If I got bored, I'd glance at the TV and watch The Football or whatever.

"DO IT!" Lala said. "You deserve it! Don't give that guy any more time or space!"

I was miles and miles from home and I didn't want the night to be a complete waste, so I drove to the bar and got there in time for what should have been my date. Only to see this:

So that's when I drove home. I'd like to say I cried because I don't even have a piano to pour my emotions out on. But in reality, it was the hope that killed me.