I’m still having fun dating myself. Last night I went to the Broad Museum because I had tickets I reserved and sat on for close to a month. It was Thursday so a free night at the Museum of Contemporary Art was next. I drove to Philippe’s for dinner, but wasn’t actually hungry yet and walked to Olvera Street which closes a lot earlier than I remember and Union Station which really is beautiful when you aren’t in a hurry. I walked back to Philippe’s in the dark and really appreciated Santa Monica for their police presence and the safety I feel there.
In line behind a group of three, their third wheel was beautiful. He was tall and had one of those smiles that I would draw if that was my skill set, but as you can see, it really isn’t. He dropped a pencil and didn’t notice it, but I handed it to him and nearly melted at his smile when he said thank you and told me it was his lucky pencil. In that moment, I could see myself getting to know him better, but then thought about the amazing night I had just lived through, and decided that no, it’s a hard pass. In fact, I knew then that I was going to pass on everyone.
In the last couple of months, a really great friend pointed out how shamelessly my flirting looked a lot like teasing to a high school boy. He remembered his interest and I never really thought about it. I thought it was just him and he was being silly because our conversations are still a little flirtatious. Sometimes. Rarely. And then there was a second memory from another man, and it was confirmation that I couldn’t ignore. I flirted and teased in high school, but this was out in front of everyone and never on a one to one basis.
The latest one remembered me as never shy, happy and full of laughter. He remembered my smile. I felt bad, having had to really look at his face and our mutual friends to place him. I didn’t remember him. But there was something flattering about his memory, even if he really didn’t know about my depressed moods, and loner tendencies. The idea of reconnecting seemed fun . . . Once I got passed the fleeting idea that I may or may not have been someone’s 20 year old jizz rag mistress. I liked the idea of him wanting to show me a good time and cook for me. But I also like knowing that whatever I choose to do alone or with friends, my juice is always worth the squeeze.
Last night was a great night. Wednesday was also pretty epic. I went to the beach after work. I watched a seal family frolic in the ocean from the pier. I enjoyed a meal alone, next to a table with two gorgeous men who were complete pigs, but fun to watch. I walked to the promenade and ran into the same two men, shared a little about each other and I moved on. Then I walked the Promenade, had a chocolate scented cigar (do they make dessert cigars?) because I needed the reminder of why I quit smoking all of those years ago, and I sang out loud on my way to my car. Still got the same stares. I even got smiles, and no one approached the crazy person singing to herself, so it was a win all around. It was a really great night. In fact, I spoil myself with the good times I have alone.
I’m still not dating online. That was a massively disappointing lesson I needed to learn. This doesn’t mean I don’t get asked out. He has to be beautiful and smart. I need to feel like he would make my alone time a gift I would offer rather than a sacrifice on my part. I’m not dating people. I’m dating myself. I love dating myself.
I eat like I love myself. I don’t diet. I eat what looks good and I savor each moment with my food. I buy myself jewelry. I enjoy eating alone with a book, or journal, or my phone. I love walking through museums and stopping at what calls out to me, because a lot of it makes no sense and I won’t linger. When I want to brighten my day, I’ll buy myself flowers and I know I don’t like baby’s breath, so it’s never included in my bouquets. I love being alone. I don’t want someone to take me out because I’m so great at showing myself a good time and there’s a chance going out would make me feel like my time was squandered.