The night of my very first date, I almost called it off.
I sat on my bed that afternoon, rocking back and forth to ease the nausea. I had clear braces and overly highlighted hair, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he really liked me or it was all a joke. When I finally gathered my strength, I headed to the mall to meet him. And when I saw him, there they were. The butterflies.
That was the moment I fell in love with lust. The invigorating nerves that make you sweat more than you’d like your date to know. The embarrassing moment where you pretend you’re cold to explain why your hands are shaking. The kind of lust that’s neither sinful nor pointless. The potential precursor to love.
Ever since that night, I was hooked. I’m starting to think I must have gotten an extra dose of estrogen in the womb. Maybe I’m a little (boy) crazy, but I’ve had a serious crush on someone almost every day of my life. My ex-husband was my ultimate crush… that is, until I found out what a scumbag sucklord of a cheating douchebag he was.
After that, something snapped. Standards plummeted. Alcohol tolerance soared. I started to truly believe my drunk dancing was sexy (that’s a scary thought, folks), and butterflies took a backseat. I wanted a man (or five), stat. Didn’t care if the guy never called me again – I was open for business. But no matter how I tried to escape them, the butterflies stayed.
They followed me to my steamy alleyway make-out session (which I highly recommend you put on your bucket list). To the street where Prince Charming rescued me and my sprained ankle in San Francisco. Christ, they even followed me to the loser who asked me to drinks and then took it back via text message.
And now, for the first time in my adult life, the butterflies are gone. Suddenly, inexplicably dead. Maybe I should feel empowered. After all, who wants to check their phone fifty times a day for some stupid guy? Or reply “maybe” to all other plans on the off-chance he wants to go to dinner that night? Or feel that shameful burn when your browser tells you his facebook profile has made your top ten most visited sites? Which, uh, happened to a dear friend of mine… who definitely was not me…
But let’s be real: a woman needs someone to fantasize about. Anyone. I’ve got nothing here. Zero. Whose face am I supposed to cut out of a yearbook and put on my old wedding pictures now, huh? Not that I’d ever
show that to anyone do that.
So what gives? Have all the good men truly gone away, or have I become the Ice Queen of love – freezing all the little butterflies till they flutter no more?