One Year Later: My New Year’s Eve Kiss… My Ass

Damn it. I HATE when my ex husband is right. But, here he goes again, like clockwork. Never fails. His words, stuck in my head. And, unfortunately for me, my memory is like an elephant’s. Which is good. And bad. But, lately, I’m thinking it’s bad. And worse. Because, really, all I want is the chance to live my life like an ignorant person – in bliss. To believe the lies people tell me, especially men. The fairytales. The bullshit. Yeah, I want to not only believe that Prince Fucking Charming is going to rescue me, but that he is also the same fucking guy (fucking me) in my bed, wielding his mighty, ahem, sword.

Unfortunately for me, as my ex husband used to LOVE to point out, I’m the red pill. As in The Matrix, the 1999 feature film starring Keanu Reeves and Laurence Fishburne that made us all question what reality truly is. In other words, according to my ex husband, I’m a buzzkill, the red pill that Morpheus (Fishburne) offers Neo (Reeves) that will forever free him from living in an artificial reality. Morpheus also offers Neo a blue pill that will keep him safely deluded in the Matrix forever. Get it? Blue pill equals bullshit. Red pill equals… well, damn, now that just fucking sucks, now doesn’t it?

Yeah, that’s right, reality does kind of suck. I know. I learned about it the hard way, not only when my marriage ended but pretty much every day since, beginning less than 24 hours after I banished my cheating husband from our home and some hot piece of middle-aged ass found me on JDate and took me from Bree Van De Kamp to Bree Van De Tramp.

With one roll in the New York City hay, I went from a married woman having either bad sex or, as I preferred, no sex to a single woman having hot sex and hotter sex. Of course, that eventually got old (but not before I washed, rinsed, and repeated on and off for far too long), despite his wishes that I would get pregnant so he “wouldn’t have to decide” (Yes, it was always my dream to have a shotgun wedding at 40. Not.), and his proclamation while in the throes of passion that “this isn’t sex, this is making love.” Puh-lease. I’ll be the judge of that, Mr. Casanova. Cue To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before. During. And after.

Still, in between I waited for The One, the one who would make all of the bad dates and heartache that came before him nothing but a distant memory. Embarrassingly enough, I thought there was a small chance that this “him” had finally found me a little over a month ago (I said a chance. Admittedly, I’m not so much the dreamer as I once was. And although that saddens me, the change was a necessary one. See the rest of my blog.)

Immediately, I went off of JDate. And Match. And Tinder. And whatever else I was on. You get the picture. His idea, not mine. But I figured, what the hell. I’d try it this way like he not so subtly suggested and we would give our blossoming romance a real shot. And, for a while, everything was great.

Until it wasn’t.

All within a short period of time (red flag?) he took me to his office holiday party (inviting me even before we met), celebrated a milestone birthday with me, introduced me to and had me spend time with his young child, invited me to an upcoming friend’s birthday party, and… drum roll, please… asked if we could ring in the New Year together on our fourth date.

Which brings me to New Year’s Eve, the holiday I love to hate and hate to love. Though I really do love New Year’s Eve, I haven’t loved it for the last however many years, especially toward the end of my marriage as I spent it with a man I no longer loved and, after that, uncoupled because, as a single woman, there was no one I deemed worthy enough with whom to share it.

But, oh how I missed that New Year’s Eve kiss, so much so that I could practically taste it! And, up until a few hours preceding this past New Year’s Eve, I thought I would. I did, however, remain cautious. Skeptical. Maybe it was that red pill I swallowed long ago that caused me to question whether all of this was too much too fast.

So as my friends kept calling and texting me to ask what I would be doing this New Year’s Eve, I ignored them. Put them off. I couldn’t bear to admit I had a date.

As it turned out, I didn’t. That’s because at the last minute I walked. Bailed. Bolted. Exited, stage left, and let that figurative curtain fall behind me. And I’m A-OK about it. Because I’m saving myself, like a born-again virgin. Self-respecting for the very first time (Shout out to Madonna! Love you!).

No, it actually wasn’t the very first time, only another first in a line of many long overdue. So when this New Year’s Eve date suddenly began smelling like a sex date – one where nothing was planned, not even dinner, only “quality’ time spent together with a bottle of wine I was asked to bring, and no doubt with me on my back (where he’s never before seen me), I canceled.

Now, to be clear, my exeunt had nothing, and I repeat NOTHING to do with sex itself. In fact, I love having sex – with the right person, at the right time, and when I’m ready. What this does have EVERYTHING to do with is the presumption of sex. And that’s where I lose my shit.

Guys (and girls for that matter), listen up. Stop. Counting. Dates. I sure as hell don’t. But I’m beginning to sense that doing so is an all too common occurrence, one I’ve been subjected to before. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that the moment I feel as though I’m being manipulated or, at a minimum, treated inconsiderately, I feel about as sexy as a nun, even when I’m wearing my lacy bra and panties, which I was.

And perchance I did get it “totally wrong,” as I was corrected in a perfunctory text by my date, his was, at a minimum, arguably thoughtless behavior for a fourth date, not to mention that it was also New Year’s Eve!

So where’s this all leading, you may wonder?

Nowhere actually. I’m tired, and understandably so. I first went down that dating rabbit hole nearly three years ago and would like nothing more than to be with someone wonderful. But what I’m not too tired to do is take my time. Get things right. And when I’m finally kissed at midnight, I’ll know that it was well worth the wait. So today I begin the countdown yet again… this time for however long it takes.