Cosmic signs from the checkout lane: It's not you it's me and the 40 times I've learned that.

"It's not you, it's me".

So, maybe that's true. Maybe. But it's also true that since the dawn of my womanhood, or at least since I got my first training bra, I have single-handily been responsible for men the world over realizing what about them (not me) it was. The thought of having to see ME again, of maybe being my boyfriend or even having to go through another Friday night with me for any reason at all... that helped them to see something... you know... about them.

In short, there's just something about me. Or rather, more specifically there's something wrong, very very wrong about me, that makes men realize something about themselves-- and their never wanting to see me again.

And, it's what it is. I've always been the girl before the girlfriend, the girl to whom you say "It's just that I respect you too much to keep just hooking up and not actually moving forward"... but doesn't respect you enough to maybe, as you'd been waiting for all those stupid fumbling nights after closing down the bar with him, for him to m maybe ask "Do you want to go to a movie? Or rent one? Or maybe even swing through a drive-through on the way back to your apartment and I'll pay?"... but maybe, maybe this certain boy respected me too much for that too-- I mean, he wouldn't have wanted me to feel like a hooker or anything, right? No, no, 'Blue-Ribbon' boy... I have never forgotten that winter. It was a cold winter, and that 'respect' has chilled me to the bone for all these years hereafter. Someone once told me it was because you were so Irish... that it was because you were so this or so that, but the truth is, it wasn't any of those things-- that was my first peek at the reality of it... that it wasn't anything about you. It was that you were (or rather weren't) with me.

And so I don't know why-- because I am 30, because my partner of 7 years has met the woman of his dreams in under a year, jsut because it's what people say I should do--I continue to try, now and again, to date. Cautiously, generally firmly set against it before even considering coffee, googling to be on the safe side and secretly hoping to find out that this time it will be you to get it out of the way before having to put on makeup even that first time.

But, I do, I keep that door just the tiniest crack open. I do not know why, it's in my nature... a romantic without any trust is a messy thing. In past years I would be very good friends with Emily Dickinson, no doubt, though I feel certain she would not care in the slightest for the fact that the only way I write is to blog.

And, it's in my nature to be a kind person. And recently, when seeing a my-god-i-cant-believe-a-man-that-hot-can-be-walking-the-face-of-this-earth lost soul of a creature wandering desperately through a grocery store looking for a place to throw out his gum, I offered him a wrapper from my purse. I even offered, though he refused, for him to put it in my purse (not because I'm creepy, relax-- I just happen to have a child nearing 6, it would probably be the least creepy thing in my purse). And he said "It would be wrong to just you know... stick it somewhere". And I agree-- there are just certain ways one ought to behave in this world. You should return your cart to the cage for it in the parking lot. You should never throw your cigarette butt on the ground. You should never leave a tip for a waitress under the plate so it gets lost or dirty. You should always ask customer service people how they are, and you should really want to know when you ask... and it's nice to see others of that nature as I do here and there. So we got to talking, and talking led to chatting, and chatting led to "I don't want to be to forward, but you're extremely attractive and seem like a kind of special girl-- are you married or engaged?"

And I'm not. And we exchanged numbers, and it was nice. And it took some of the hurt from the most recent 'it's not me, it's just me not wanting you' experience, which was still a little fresh just because it went down in an awkward fashion, and because by now, it's a familiar kind of sting, it's getting old and more wearing.

But I digress. Before side note, we were exchanging numbers. And I continued my shopping, kind of tickled, a little flattered, but as ever myself thinking "But I probably won't call him... anyway, who the hell meets someone in the grocery store? And he totally wasn't my type". But, the number, it did go in my purse. And there it stayed...

Until the checkout lane. And there, there was the last one. The most recent reminder that 'no, no, you are not for dating... you are one who doesn't work for others'. His perfect jaw, soft eyes, everything about him wonderful, just another of so many who knew that he was worlds apart from me, something I somehow failed to register. And that's something that always happens, really this was just a little cosmic sign from the checkout... "Reality check at the express lane, please".

And I waited for the cosmic reminder to leave, remembered who I am and what I'm not (datable) , and that it's not me, pretty much as a rule. And I walked out the door after all these years with the thing I've never entirely gotten finally sunken in firmly. I dropped the number behind a trash can. I knew better. Guys and me... we have a 3 weeks shelf life.

There's a poem I remember from an elementary school reader about a kid watching moths flying to their fiery deaths in a bug zapper, and the last line after a moth explains to him the exhilaration of that moment beforehand making it all worth while is something to the effect of "I wish I wanted something as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself" as he watched utterly clueless an d befuddled at the white wings pop away.

And I get that today, I do.

The boy has been in touch... we will have lunch, but for some reason I get it now. I do, I literally truly give up... I have finally come full circle from a 21 year old hopeless romantic to a 30 year old romantic who doesn't know hope. It's always going to hurt like hell, it's always going to end badly, and it's never ever been and never going to be worth it to get there. I don't want anything as badly as that moth wanted to fry itself, and baby... when it comes to who gets zapped in the end...

It's not you... it's me.

Always.

(*I really do want to note here that the most recent "ummm...not vibing you" guy is really a great guy, wonderful even. I wasn't mad that he didn't like me, it happens. He just happened to be the one in the checkout line when self doubt creeped in.)