I've never been good at accepting when things are over.
Phone conversations only end for me when the person on the other end of the line pauses awkwardly then says, "Well... I'm gonna have to let you go." I don't make my exit from dinner gatherings until I notice the hostess loudly shoving plates into the dishwasher, moaning about how much she can't wait until she can put on her pajamas. I'm frequently the last person at a party, still whooping and hollering off the front porch at 4 a.m., long after everyone else has gone to bed.
It's been no different with the two defining relationships of my life.
I vividly remember a blisteringly hot day in Rome in July 2007. I'd gone there on a vacation of a lifetime with my mom, and we were sitting on the edge of one of the Eternal City's intricately carved fountains, desperately trying to rehydrate. As I drank from straight from the fountain's spigot, I poured my heart out to my mother about all my doubts about my relationship with Ex-BF v. 1.0, all the things he did that bothered me and how I wasn't sure I really loved him anymore.
"Life's too short to be unhappy," she'd said to me, gazing off into the distance with a look of regret in her eye.
She was right. But I didn't break up with him until the following March, when his plans to move closer to my apartment forced my hand.
Of course, then I'd jumped right into seriousness with Ex-BF v. 2.0 without learning anything from that experience. Six months into our relationship, I'd begun to move my things into his condo, the fledgling stages of our cohabitation.
Another vivid memory: I was sitting at my desk at work, furling my brow.
"What's wrong?" a co-worker asked when she sensed something was off.
"I just moved in with my boyfriend," I said, inhaling deeply. "And I think I made a mistake."
She gave me a look that told me she understood what I was going through.
"It's never too late to change your mind," she said. "Trust me."
But I didn't change anything. Despite my instincts, I lived with him for nine months -- until the day I came home to find all my things neatly stacked in a pile on our living room floor.
In all of these cases, I know what's happening around me. I can always feel it -- a vague sense of dread that clings to me, collapsing my lungs and churning my stomach.
But due to some sense of... I don't know, duty? Responsibility? An unwillingness to disappoint people? I ignore my instincts, and I let my situation fester until someone else makes the decision for me.
Today is Oct. 6. Two years ago yesterday, my already crumbling relationship finally disintegrated. Two years ago tomorrow, I'd come home to that aforementioned pile.
I didn't make that choice back then. And I promised myself I would never let that happen to me again. I would make the decisions in my life; I would walk away when I knew it was time.
And so, bearing that in mind, I need to walk away from this blog.
Two years ago, I was 26, freshly out of seven years of fully committed relationships. I felt like I had wasted my 20s, spending the majority of the years with two men who were completely wrong for me. I'd never "dated." I'd never been on a real date in my entire life.
I started this blog to chronicle the adventure. I wanted to meet men, go out, have drinks, feel infatuation, gush. Make mistakes, and learn from them. And I needed a creative outlet -- I hated my job, and I was constantly bored.
And I did all of that. I did more living in those two years than most people do in their entire lifetimes. I've canvassed this city. I've learned what to do, what not to do, how to talk to people (believe me when I say this: conversation is a learnable skill). I've held happy hours, been interviewed and, in one particularly awesome case, been recognized in public.
But now -- today -- I'm in a totally different place. I'm not a rookie -- I'm so good at first date chatter that I ALWAYS get asked out on second dates. I get asked for dating advice, and I legitimately immediately know the answer.
And the best thing ever? I have an absolutely AMAZING job -- one that I got as a DIRECT RESULT of writing this blog -- that constantly engages my brain and affords me the creativity that I so desperately craved. (And the amount of money I make to do so can only truly be described as "sinful.")
I'm not the person I was when I started this. And it's taken me to a place where I don't quite fit anymore.
So, for once, I'm making the choice and closing this chapter of my life. It's time to move on to something else.
What all that entails, I'm not entirely sure. I do know a few things: For starters, I'm not going to stop tweeting. It's fun, all my friends use it, and it's more addicting than crack cocaine. So if you follow me, rest assured I'm not going anywhere.
I'm also not going to stop going on dates -- the goal is still to find someone and settle down, and the only way to do that is to keep putting myself out there and meeting new people. Just for this new stage of my life, it's not the quantity that matters, it's the quality. I don't need as many experiences to beef up my resume; at this point I've had plenty.
Maybe I'll write a new blog; maybe I won't. Maybe I'll start that book everyone tells me I should write; maybe I'll just keep teaching others how to do it for me.
But regardless of what I decide to do, I'll tell you this: Through the mirror of the men I've dated, I've learned a lot about myself.
That's been invaluable. And I don't regret a single moment.
So... can we still be friends?
