When Will I Be Loved?

broken-heart-clip-art-635689     Whether you prefer the Everly Brothers’ version or Linda Ronstadt’s version of the song, the question remains the same—when will I be loved?

     Originally, this was slated to be my very last “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” article. I even completely cancelled my Match subscription. But, life happened as I was making plans, and I had to change the title, the content, and sadly, the ending.

     First up was a bachelor who proudly proclaimed he was into minimalistic living.
     I replied, “Okay. I can deal with that. I don’t need a bunch of electronic gadgets or toys. I’m content with what I have now.”
     Then he declared, “I will never live in a house again. Ever.”
     At first, I thought he was kidding. I laughed. “But if the woman you married had a house, then you could move into her house.”
     “No. I will never live in a house again, no matter who owns it.”
     Huh? He can’t be serious. “So, you’d rather pay rent and have nothing to show for it? Even if you have a viable alternative?”
     “I’m committed to minimalistic living.”
     At that point, he showed me a picture of the living space in his apartment. There was one chair and a lamp. That’s it. Nothing else. I’m assuming there was a bed somewhere. Perhaps not.
     I commented, “There’s no place for visitors to sit.”
     “I don’t want visitors. Ever.”
     Shaking my head in disbelief, I said, “I have visitors a few times a year.”
     “No. I won’t allow visitors.”
     “It’s just my parents.”
     “No. Visitors don’t ever leave.”
     “My parents do. They have busy social lives. They don’t want to stay here.”
     “No. No visitors ever.”
     “They’re my parents.”
     “No. No exceptions.”
     Then, he finally admitted that he was unemployed. That might explain the whole minimalistic living thing. It was more out of necessity than principle.
     Don’t get me wrong, I believe there are times in one’s life where living in an apartment or a condo makes sense. I’m not at that point yet. I like the peace, quiet, and privacy of a house. No noise from upstairs or downstairs neighbors. I like independent living. Thank you, very much.

     My next suitor was a daredevil and a party animal. He was the most ruggedly handsome guy I had agreed to meet thus far. He entertained me with lots of stories about drinking, drugs, and death-defying feats. I could have done without some of the drinking and drug stories. However, the daredevil stories were fascinating. I was impressed he’d lived this long. But I am not looking for Evil Knievel.

     The gentleman who followed was the polar opposite of Mr. Knievel. He was nice, polite, and conservative. But he was as boring as they come. I do not go on dates to hear myself talk. I want the guy to tell me about himself, engage in a conversation. How can I get to know someone if he does not speak? He was the king of awkward silences. Check, please!

     Next up was a bachelor who had interesting ideas concerning food. He was thinking about becoming a vegetarian. That’s fine with me, although, I would not become one myself. Granted, I do not eat a lot of meat. But every once and awhile, I need a nice juicy steak!
     As the conversation progressed, he said, “If we live together, you can’t have chocolate or sweets in the house.”
     Wait. What? I can’t have chocolate in my own house?
     I pictured myself sneaking out of the house under the cover of darkness. I would wear a black trench coat and escape to a clandestine meeting with a perfect, medium-cooked filet mignon and a warm, gooey, decadent chocolate dessert.
     My car’s glove box would be under lock and key. I would have installed a temperature controlling device to prevent my Hershey’s bars (with almonds) from becoming misshapen melted blobs. Oh the humanity!

     Lest I forget, let me throw in a not-so-random observation. Fall must be the time of year for men to be exhausted and take mandatory naps. Three, count them, three different guys fell asleep during dates while watching movies. I am not referring to a quick head nod. I am talking about deep sleep, complete with snoring. Hard to discuss the movie afterward when one of us slept through it. Anyway…

     Late in the year, I thought I had finally found “The One.” He was everything I had dreamed about and prayed for. He was good-looking, kind, fun-loving, generous, and financially secure, among other things. And did I mention he was hot? God had finally answered my prayers.
     I liked his kids, and they liked me. And I quote, “She is the best one we’ve ever met.”
     High praise coming from a teen and pre-teen. When they hugged me, they meant it. They were not giving me the “I’m being forced to hug you” type of hugs. They were great kids. Everything was picture perfect.
     The two of us went on a vacation. It was fantastic, and we had a great time. Or so I thought.
     A few days after we returned, he called me on the phone and broke up with me. Just like that. Out of the blue. No indication of any issue or problem prior to the phone call.
     He said, “You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t say or do anything wrong. It’s me. I haven’t been in a relationship in a long time. I thought I was ready. But I’m not. I’m sorry.”
     Stunned and dumbfounded, I asked, “Do you want to slow things down and not see each other as much?”
     His answer was plain and simple. “No. I just want to end it. I’m sorry.”
     I will spare you the crying details and the amount of Kleenex I went through.
     So, here I sit with a broken heart. Again.

     As I mentioned in the beginning, this was intended to be the last article in my dating series. I completely cancelled my Match membership because we had discussed marriage.
     I apologize to you, dear readers. There’s no way for me to make the last section funny and entertaining. Because it’s not.
     However, I am choosing to look at the bright side. The relationship was wonderful while it lasted. And I got a really great vacation out of it.
     So, I will leave you with the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson: “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Copyright © 2016 by Suzanne Purewal