Okay, so here's the story: I believed I could either live my purpose or have a partner. I chose purpose. I worked hard, got the grades, went to the right school (Rice University, Houston), and entered a respectible field for the organized creative (architecture). I had the vague understanding that I'd get married someday, but there was time for that later. Being considered a silly girl was my kryptonite, and from what I could tell, falling for some guy was the gateway drug for silly girls. I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to be of consequence.
Lucky for me, I appeared to have no innate interest in dating or sex, and putting off marriage was a consequence-less impulse since I had zero mothering instincts. Kids weren't my jam, so I wasn't running on a countdown clock. I looked with pity upon all those poor women who found themselves unintentional slaves to their biology. "There but for grace go I."
And truly, I felt this indefinite hibernation of my sexual impulses was pure grace. When I moved into my mid-twenties and realized that the meaningful life I'd carefully organized for myself felt anything but, I began to think maybe it was time to try dating.
Without all that pesky unpredictable biology clouding my brain, I was able to stay rational, objective and observant through the years of power dating I did online. The problem was, however, without that beacon of sexual connection that other 'normal' people seemed to experience, I didn't have a compass telling me which way to go. I went on a lot of first dates. All of the guys were nice. Really nice. But I rarely wanted seconds.
Through a number of unexpected twists and turns, I am now a 30-something single mom to a super cool toddler living on 30 acres of working orange orchards in an enchanted small town in Southern California, and my job looks like something my Midwestern relatives are tempted to refer to as a hobby.
I have still never had a boyfriend or been in a dating relationship with anyone as an adult. I have been in love with more than one woman. I've felt the impulse to marry people who anyone else would consider 'just' my friend. I've wished I could feel desire for people who were 'appropriate.' I have had occasion more than once to wonder if I was going to die of a broken heart. The most intimate
relationships I've been in have had nothing to do with sex, and the lack of sex in those relationships has left many of them undefinable and unrecognized. And that has always sucked.
So, it should come as no surprise that my uber-rational overthinker's brain has spent these years in hot pursuit of some understanding of what it means to be in love. My motives are mostly selfish: I want to know if I'm going to get to experience it in this lifetime. In love for me doesn't look like it's 'supposed to.' I've spent a lifetime knowing I'm 'doing it wrong.' But I can't help but wonder if this time of gender fluidity and sexual spectrums might also be our opportunity to redefine recognized partnership. We've gotten so specific in our definitions that we can label an individual's experience to within a millimeter of accuracy. My hope is that this infinite field of individual categorization of romantic partnering might lead us to the logical conclusion that the experience is unique to everyone. Maybe then, we can blow through the hyper-defining into un-defining, and just call it 'love'. Maybe then I'll have a shot at it myself.
Still interested in more details? Check out my book, The Overthinker's Guide to Love.