Here, they are manifesting.
I asked someone out last week. It was (somewhat) impulsive. We met, and I thought he was cute, and nice, and seemed generally responsible, and I pictured us getting coffee (getting coffee means having sex, obviously) and it made me happy, so I just asked. Him for coffee. I asked without thinking too much about it, or wondering what he would say, or wondering how it would feel if he said no – or anything. It’s the second time I’ve asked someone on a date since Anna was born, and maybe the 3rd time in my adult life. He stumbled, and after a few minutes of stuttering on his words, he held up his ring-less hand to indicate while he wasn’t wearing one, he should be. My heart sunk, and I backed out of the room as fast as I could while attempting to appear to be moving at a normal pace, which for some reason meant I slowly starting bending over as if I were his butler, so that by the time I pulled the door shut in front of me I was fully bent at the waist.
No one knows why that happened.
Well maybe a therapist-y person does, but I don’t.
I sighed when I shut the door, swore at him, to myself, for not wearing a ring, swore at all married men that don’t, and let it go.
Today, though, over lunch with a friend – I openly complained about the abundance of married men that appear before me, wanting a connection, and the lack of single, readily available ones. To be fair to the unassuming man I asked out, he was just nice & cute and I liked him, he didn’t hit on me – but to be unfair to the others, they came for me. It’s taken me 39 years of being a woman to see it – what it’s like when you’re being hit on, especially by someone that’s not supposed to be doing it, but I get it now, and while I can’t always see it in the moment it’s happening, later, in bed alone, when I’m replaying my day, it settles in, and I realize it. It’s not #metoo or anything, it’s just a total bummer for the wives I don’t know, and annoying.
Side note: everyone that’s reading this – your husband has never hit on me. He doesn’t live here, with us, on social media. Promise.
What she pointed out, while she gave me open therapy, is that when anyone questions what I want, I state it – with confidence, but I don’t state it in its entirety, which is the below.
I want dinner and a movie, or coffee, or hikes or runs or walks. Beach time. Bookstore browsing. Thrift store shopping. Overnight hotel stays. And then when Anna comes back from wherever she went that allowed me some space to be a woman, and not a mother, I want to be alone again. I don’t want to co-parent, I don’t want to move in, and I don’t want to get married.
And maybe that won’t always be the case, but right now – in this world of full-time job and full-time mom and brief breaks of just the woman Erin, that’s it. Brief escapes to be treated like a woman, brief breaks to put on lipstick and wear jeans that are a little too tight. I want to be told I’m pretty and smart and funny, by someone other than my best friend. I want to tell someone how handsome and smart and funny they are. I want them to be responsible, and caring, and intelligent. I want them to love music and every form of the arts. I want them to be a proud feminist. I want them to be creative, and I want them to support my own creativity. I want them to be a good listener, and a good friend, and a good lover, and I want to be the same for them. I want them to care about their work, whatever that work might be. I want them to care about their family and friends.
I want them to be able to fix. stuff.
I want a sensitive lumberjack.
I want that person to not be married. Or attached. I want them to be available, in every sense of the word. Nearby, and free, and perhaps also randomly around for dinner, if it works? And not upset if it doesn’t.
I want to bend over at the waist because I’m laughing incredibly hard, or because of lust, not because I’m mortified and trying to escape the room.
I want a part-time, but available, lover.
**looking for a sensitive lumberjack**