You Give Me Butterflies. Inside, Inside.

Last month was crap. Between pneumonia, losing money due to pneumonia, unrelated blood tests (argh), breaking up with friends, my uterus going rogue, cover letter writing, interviewing, looking for apartments, and cleaning up my dog’s pee from the carpet, it’s a wonder I made it out alive.  Now that I am on the other side and the sun is coming out, I decided to join the real world for spring.  My real world consists of ice coffees, walks all over Brooklyn, white wine, theater, and skirts.

And, oh yeah, dating.

My best friend always tells me I am a squirrel. I can hibernate in school or work and writing because I hate the cold, but show me a flower and I will want to show you my, well flower.  Although this is probably a gross exaggeration, there is something to feeling more feminine in spring. I am more likely to smile and look at you for an extra 3 seconds…before I push you out the way to get to the train.

To start my season of right, I revamped my online dating profile.  In the midst of even more life drama, I totally forgot about it until a 6 foot man who could spell correctly messaged me saying he would like to meet. After the prerequisite google search and phone call, we agreed to meet this weekend.

But something is off. I don’t feel it.

What don’t I feel?? No, it’s not that type of post.

I don’t feel the butterflies.

During most of my twenties, my stomach was a greenhouse filled with butterflies. At any given time, a text, glance, brush, or kiss, could make my lungs feel like I was running a 5k.

This man is cute. And seemingly smart. But at the moment (this exact moment), I really just am thinking about eating grilled cheese.

A passerby, or my mother, would think that I am too settled or too bitter to get excited about the prospect of love. That’s not it. I am pretty settled. I am a little bitter, but I still like the idea of love.

So why have I resolved to thrift around Williamsburg and take a long stroll and not let it ruin my day if he is late or doesn’t show or is totally lame? Why don’t I check my phone every 5 minutes wondering if he will text me?

Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m no longer a crazy ass bitch.

When I think about the times when me and my friends described (in great detail) the boy-caused butterflies, I tend to think about the excitement, the finding of the perfect date night outfit, the recap you can’t wait to tell everyone about.

Somehow, I gloss over the not-so-great parts that come with looking before you leap.  The crying. The overanalyzing of emails (I have spent at least 2 weeks of my life reading emails from boys for my friends). The conversations that go around in circles.  The pregnancy tests. The disappearances.  The stand ups. The going Dutch. The paying outright. The reappearances with another girl. The drama.  The last 10 years, me and my friends have made some of the aforementioned mistakes. Well, all of them. And some of them repeatedly.

And now what do I think about? I think about myself and my wants mostly. But when I think about another person, I don’t wonder what he looks like under the shower. I wonder if he has a stable job. A signature drink. An aestetic. A clean bloodstream. These are not very exciting things; they do not cause butterflies.  However, they are much, MUCH, MUCH more essential in finding a good partner than the way someone’s hair falls in their face or how their ass looks in jeans when they walk away.

Did I just say partner? Oh shit.

It’s time for that grilled cheese. And a martini.

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