Dispatch from inside a fortress.

I’ve actually been trying not to write for the past two weeks. I didn’t really want to put this all out there, but instead, I’ve been holding it in and dwelling on it and slowly driving myself insane. But sometime around midday today, as I should have been doing work but found my mind wandering and wondering yet again, I realized that the reason I have this damn site is for this very reason – to avoid letting my own thoughts drive me crazy, as they often do, and to tell you fine readers what it’s really like to be a single girl in New York. So here goes.

I like a boy. A lot. That part is kind of fun.

He lives halfway across the country. That part is not.

I met him in Denver, and we didn’t even spend an entire day together, but… I don’t know… it just felt good.

Different.

Nice.

Normal… which to be honest, isn’t exactly something I’ve felt much of with the opposite sex in the past five years.

Recently, when people have asked me my type – whatever that is, because I don’t think anyone really has one – I often replied something like, “I don’t know. Normal. Doesn’t wear skinny jeans. Funny. Likes sports.” In my mind, I’m thinking of the guys I went to college with, with whom I could just sit around and drink a beer and watch a football game and play marry/fuck/kill. He doesn’t have to be trendy or make lots of money. He really shouldn’t live in Williamsburg. He doesn’t need to take me to the fanciest restaurants or the hippest bars, because I’m quite happy in an Irish pub, drinking in jeans and flip flops. I want someone who won’t think it’s weird if I bring him home to my loud family and feed him piergois.

That’s my normal. It might not be yours. But somehow, in just eight or nine hours with this guy, I got a sense that maybe he might fit into that kind of normal.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I met him in Denver, on my last full day there, while hopping around breweries on a rare rainy afternoon. Everyone in Denver seemed so much friendlier, and we spent our day chatting with different groups of people, jumping in on card games or iPhone games, all around having a blast. His group and mine merged for awhile – more drinks were purchased, more games were played, and at some point we realized we’d been out for far longer than we were planning.

I went home with my friends. He went elsewhere with his. And shortly after I got home, I got a text asking if I wanted to come back out.

Of course I want to, I thought.

But my flight is early and I came to visit you! I said to my friends.

Who cares, you can sleep on the plane, they replied.

You still out? I’ll come out for a bit, I texted him back, trying to remain cool, all while inside my head I was like this:

So I went out. I had some more drinks with him. The rest of his crew went home. We stayed out.

We talked – about where we were from and how we got to where we are now, about sports and school and movies and books and life. About how he’s a little bit younger than me, and no, I don’t care. About how he doesn’t even live in Denver, he lives in Dallas, and that part really sucks. And at some point, we both realized we were sitting in a nearly empty bar and should probably call an Uber to take us home.

The Uber got lost, so we waited… and waited. We stood outside the bar, on a cold, rainy night, and he finally kissed me, softly at first, and then again, and at this point my knees turned to mush and my stomach started to flip-flop and I forgot whatever resistance I’d had just a few minutes earlier.

The universe works in funny ways, sometimes. If we’d left the bar and the Uber had been there immediately, would I be writing this? Would he have kissed me if we didn’t have the extra time waiting? What if Denver hadn’t gotten one of their 20 annual rainy days on the weekend I was visiting? Would we have ended up at that specific brewery at the same time?

I talked a lot that weekend about how you meet people these days and how I can’t bring myself to fully commit to the online dating thing – not only because I hate it and it feels like work, but also because I still want to believe it’s possible to meet someone in real life. I have many friends who are married to or seriously dating someone they met online, and they’re all very happy, and I’m very happy for them. Maybe someday, I’ll change my mind on it.

But for now, I can’t. For now, I can’t stop thinking about a chance meeting in a city in which neither of us lived, facilitated only by a few beers, a Friends trivia game, and a few friendly groups of people.

I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s been two weeks. We’ve chatted a few times, but I have no idea if or when we’ll ever see each other again. The uncertainty is killing me. I hate feeling out of control of the situation. I don’t like the sensation of wanting – actually really, really wanting – to see someone again.

I don’t do lovestruck. I don’t fall this hard, this fast. I like being a fortress. Being strong and alone means you don’t get hurt. You don’t care enough to lie in bed awake at night wondering if he’s going to text or call you tomorrow. You don’t listen to stupid, sappy love songs. You don’t get giddy when you see he’s liked a photo on Facebook.

I really don’t know what to do here, aside from buying a flight to Dallas. And at this point, it might not even matter. He might have found this blog by now. (Hi there, if you did.) He might have been scared off by the past few years of posts, or he might be scared off by this one. I recognize that by having this little place in the world, I open myself up to that. (Remember Green Day guy from a few years ago? He practically quoted a post back to me when we met for drinks the first time.) I may never see him or talk to him again, and I’ll reference this months or years from now as another reason why I keep myself closed off to everyone else.

Or maybe I won’t. Maybe there actually is something here, and I just have to be patient. Maybe the romantic side of me finally wins out over the jaded side. Maybe we laugh about this months or years from now.

It’s the waiting that’s the hardest part.

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