Carrie Bradshaw reporting for duty…

As I make my way into my little green kitchen my biggest concern is wondering if wine bottles are recyclable? Me, six months ago would have been saddened by my isolation, or limited social life, now– not now. Not since He came along.

I still don’t know about the wine bottle, by the way. I was hoping a quick Google search would clear that up for me, but to no avail. I briefly went down a journey about learning how to melt candles into wine bottles or how to store rice in them, neither of which interested me. I hate clutter. I like wine, though. Executive decision: I will put my bottles in my recycling bin and hope for the best.

Back to Him:

Life is a tricky little thing. I often tell my clients (I’m a therapist, not a prostitute) or friends that people were not born with instruction manuals, which I have had to remind myself of lately. What I do have though, is my past and the lessons I’ve gathered along the way. I’ve been working on building my manual for many years, and I feel as if I have finally gotten to a place in my life where I can start referring to different “chapters.”

I met him on New Years Eve. It was one of those weird meetings where we were not supposed to me, a “meet-cute” if you will. I was having an absolutely fabulous day. Oddly, beautiful. For some reason I decided that I was going to bring in the new year with love– so I bought a lot of cheese and invited everyone I knew over. I am talking: cheese sticks, cheese cubes, sliced cheese, cheese dip, etc. It was purely accidental and I did not even realize it until I prepared all the food.

After placing all my cheese on my living room table, three people showed for my “pre-game” party and I only knew one of them, Alex. I do not remember Alex’s friend’s name so I will refer to him as, Tim.

Tim was a nice fellow. He was going through a recent divorce, I think. To my credit, and if you know me at all, I love cheese. You can not put cheese in front of me and expect me to be fully attentive, get real. But we all talked for a while. I liked him because he almost immediately started talking about his feelings and he was vulnerable. If I had to guess, this was probably a good and bad quality about him. I am thinking that if his ex-wife could not handle his intense vulnerability then it was destined to fail. I remember thinking this because, well, I have been there. Literally.

The three of us ate and drank and talked feelings. Which was like “talking shop” for me; I was happy.

Fast-forward a couple of hours and we are at a local bar, Radio Bar, enjoying a few more drinks. Tim’s newly single, ex-wife, was bar-tending and my ex-boyfriend and his current boyfriend were sitting across the booth from me. I was actually having a wonderful time. As I mentioned, I was very happy. Last year was shit. I gave up being fearful and decided to lean into love, which was working well. So well that I was content with bringing in the new year watching my ex kiss his new, ginger, boyfriend.

Alex said, “Do you want to go to a party with me up the street? Older people, this could be good.”
I responded, “No thanks, I’m actually having a great time.”
She said, “So you want to stay here with your ex and his boyfriend, and not meet new people?”

Within ten minutes we were pulling up to the house party.

I was awkward at first, which was not very surprising. I have always had a difficult time knowing my worth– more specifically, how attractive I am. One minute someone will tell me I strongly resemble Ryan Gosling, which I think is a compliment, and the very next instance someone will call me a “troll” and put their cigaret out on my neck. Okay, the last thing never happened but it keeps me grounded to think that it could. Either way, I entered the party with great caution.

It was slow motion when He turned around. I want to believe that he did a double take when he looked at me, but it is increasingly more difficult to separate my fact from fiction. We talked. We flirted. He knew things about me that I did not tell him.

At midnight I did not kiss him. I wanted to, very badly. We clung our glasses together instead. I knew then, and I am not afraid to type it now, we will be kissing next year.

Admittedly, I am a bit of a hopeless romantic; almost obsessively, but not fully. For instance, I do not think it is inappropriate to wear a bathing suit under my outfit in case the person I am seeing wants to surprise me with a spontaneous picnic, which leads to a even more spontaneous dip in the pond. It’s like being a boy scout: always be prepared. That’s it, I’m a gay boy scout.

I took down his address, as I was going to write him a letter thanking him for the great night. Naturally, I drafted my letter out the second I thought of it. I keep getting hung up on if I should have given him my number, or email? Or neither? He would have my address, right? It didn’t matter, because what happened next freaked me out.

I was leaving for Germany on January 2nd, for 12 days. This is the crux of my love life: something good happens, something gets in the way, the good thing disappears. I Facebook messaged him. Simple. Sweet. Memorable.

In many ways I hate my generation, and the succeeding ones. I wanted him to reply immediately. How on earth could I have waited for him to mail me a response via post? Now I totally understand the struggle for the Downton Abbey crew. As I was laying awake in bed thinking about my trip to Europe it came rushing back to me. Hard.

Sometime a few months prior we met on We emailed a few times and sent a few G-rated pictures, but nothing ever came of it. It actually makes me sad to reflect about. The idea of possibly being unkind to this very emotionally generous man, breaks my heart. This is exactly how he knew my job, and what I did for fun– I already told him! I haven’t decided if that is something I want to omit from the “meet-cute?” The verdict is still out on that one.

I decided in the middle of last fall that I would meet someone, at a party, in 2013. It happened.

Now, I have the beautiful opportunity to just relax and review all of the lessons I have learned about myself and others, pulling from different chapters from my “historical instruction manual.” It is nice. Life is changing for the better, and so am I. My work is never done, in fact it is always just beginning.

Opened another wine bottle.

Oh, I almost forgot. My dear friend, Erin, calls my place “the Carrie Bradshaw Apartment,” because she lived here before she got married and I am very dutifully always a few steps behind her.


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