There was Colette. I learned from her that some people straight-up lie about who they are at the beginning of relationships. She told me she was single, never married, and was a practicing family lawyer. By the end of the date she slipped on her fibs and the truth was all revealed that she was a not-yet-divorced mom, mother of three, telemarketer. Once her lies blew up in her face, she threw it out there that she also didn’t wear underwear, I suppose hoping it would somehow revive the date. It didn’t.
There was Reagan, with whom I learned that some people can go an entire date and never say more than one word in any five-minute span.
There was Taylor. It was on this date I learned that some people literally cannot smell their own overpowering body odor. I may have cried that night the way one cries over a particularly potent onion.
There was Brooke. I learned from her that some women my age are already “mothers” to more than six cats. This was almost as remarkable as the fact that she also played the accordion and had it in her car in case I wanted to hear her play. Which I did. And it was a mind-blowing private concert. Be jealous.
There were many others, all of whom taught me about life and about love.
And rarely did I get it on in the bedroom with any of them after Kendra Blue Eyes and before The Farmer’s Daughter.
For some reason, something had pulled me hard and fast out of my whorish ways with Kendra. I became much pickier about who I took it off for.
I’m not an idiot. I know that jumping into the sack twelve minutes after meeting someone makes it almost impossible to cultivate any type of real relationship centered on love and respect for one another. I also knew that all that sex wasn’t me at all, and I didn’t want to turn into one of those guys. You know. The kind who literally wants nothing but sex, and arrives at the end of his shortened, sad life, reduced to little more than a walking billboard for gonosyphiherpelaids. I knew I needed to slow the fuck down (pun definitely intended), and so I found a way to do it… Which apparently was to dry hump my way to better habits with whomever came next. Which did and didn’t work.
As it turns out, dry humping to stop slutting around is akin to chewing Nicorette Gum to stop smoking. It was a wean to an end. Sorry, Mary. I deserve to be snickered at by more than just your friends for that one. I acknowledge that.
Anyway, besides cutting back on frivolous sex, I decided to try and really date again. I began dating to meet new people. I began dating to find love and to find a partner and a best friend, with sex being an added benefit instead of a driving force. I began dating to find any person who could officially take over the very large part of my heart that still, even that late in the game, seemed to somehow belong to Tweni.
And then I met the Farmer’s Daughter.
She didn’t just take over my heart. She did it with authority. And after hurting Mindy, I always promised myself that the next woman to own my heart would be the one who walked in and took it away from Tweni, whether I liked it or not.
There was so much to love about the Farmer’s Daughter. The way she giggled when she got both nervous and excited at the thought of me sharing a piece of her with hundreds of thousands of people on my blog. Her cute little insecurities that made her pouty lip come out and take over the scene. The way we made plans to watch a movie and would lay in bed irritating each other and wrestling for hours instead. The way she trusted me to do silly things like bench press her or balance on a giant Swiss ball with her on my back. The way she cried when she got drunk on wine. The way we playfully argued with each other about who the boss was in our relationship. The way she fully accepted people who weren’t exactly the same as she was. The way we spent hours scrolling between country songs, seeing who could scream out the artist first. The way she loved my son. The way she loved me.
God, I loved that woman.
Don’t get me wrong. There are things she did that would have driven me bat shit crazy if I let them. The way she wouldn’t say what was really on her mind sometimes for fear that it would sound foolish. The way she wouldn’t give me a proper snog when she was wearing freshly applied lip gloss. The way she saw herself as less than beautiful so often. The way she she’d pull out that pouty lip and was never afraid to beat me with it.
Her flaws were ultimately beautiful to me because they were part of who she integrally was. Her flaws also had a way of reminding me that I do plenty of things that could drive her bat shit crazy, too. If she let them. But we loved each other, so we didn’t just look past the quirks, and the flaws, and the weirdnesses, but we embraced them and found the deeper beauty that somehow existed in all of them.
I had something incredible with the Farmer’s Daughter going. I thought that love would last a lifetime.
Ultimately we had different end goals, and different ideas of how to get there. We both wanted such different outcomes in life when it came down to it, and there never was a good way to mesh those goals into one congruous journey together. We eventually had our tearful goodbye and went our separate ways to listen to our sad country songs alone once more.
A year later I would meet, fall hard for, and allow my entirety to be overwhelmed by one woman. Becky. Becky the dancer. The intellect. The sensationalist. The sensualist. The laugher. The woman so replete of what was at times such incredible and other times such destructive wisdom. The gal whom I would ultimately let extinguish so much of what was shining bright inside of me when I met her.
I tried, but the story of Becky, and the vast lessons learned surviving that love, cannot be stuffed into the final paragraphs of one collective chapter such as this, and so right there is where I will leave it.
After Becky, and with a heart still freshly ground into hamburger, came Olivia. She was the last woman I loved deeply (and also lost) as of making my final edits on this chapter which I have been culminating for nearly three years now.
Yes, after Becky was Olivia.
Olivia the emotive. The vulnerable. The hilarious. The sexy. The awe-inspiring. The sweetheart. The empathetic. The giver. She was such a giver. Olivia was saturated in complex goodness. Oh, she wasn’t faultless by any stretch of the imagination. But she was so much the opposite of Becky. She loved me for exactly the person I am and never wanted anything but to be loved and admired and to develop as a person alongside me. And even though I was deeply in love with Olivia while we were together, I broke her heart for some fucking reason. I broke it by inventing endless reasons why her love for me couldn’t be real, and then finally believing my stupid reasons to the point that I pushed her away and broke things off.
I attempted to write about Olivia, along with the lessons I have learned from that relationship as well. I couldn’t do it. That one is still fresh. Too fresh. It all came to an end only weeks ago, as a matter of fact, and book deadlines don’t seem to care about fragile or soggy emotions.
No, this chapter’s truly scrutinizing glimpses into love-gone-wrong for me must end three years ago on The Farmer’s Daughter. My heart cannot handle dissecting more of itself than I have for all of you.
I have only shared what I have thus far because I believe that for so many humans, the pursuit of love is the most difficult part of our existence to be brutally honest with ourselves about. And… hearing someone else’s perspective sometimes gives us the unexpected ability to find a little more of our own, so why not share…