Marinating

I’m not good at letting some things just be, letting them marinate and come to some sort of creation on their own. Maybe it will taste good. Maybe it will taste bad. But I have a tendency to want to cut the chase and get to the meat of the matter.

Sometimes this means that I cut into something raw and bloody. I should have been patient. Let it sit. I like my meat medium-well.
I’ve got a pretty good thing going right now. It is new-ish.

But my gut is going, “Hey, you need to figure out what this is” and “Don’t waste your time if it isn’t going to lead anywhere, even if it is fun.”

Fuck you, gut.

I know the DTR talk is one that has to occur eventually, but why rush things?

It’s not like I am placing all of my eggs in one basket (Jesus these food metaphors are getting complicated). It’s not like I’m in a rush to settle down. There is no biological clock ticking because, if anything, my ovaries react to the sight of puppies, not children. Perhaps I’m some sort of masochist, determined to face disappointment and rejection sooner rather than later. Would it be less painful then?

If I really think about it, you have to give a person time to build up an appetite. Allow the aroma to waft through, building hunger and desire. By that, I don’t mean string them along, but I mean that it is hard to really want and crave something if you don’t know what you are really getting into.

For example, I have never eaten brussel sprouts. I do not crave them. I do not hunger for them with a passion. I would not be crushed if they were to all of a sudden drop out of existence. Now, say I were to be served some delicious brussel sprouts made by someone who knows what they’re doing. I may start to have a taste for them, a hankering. I may start to seek them out. I would eat it numerous times, getting to know which flavor combinations I like best. I might get to the point that I would be disappointed if there was a brussel sprout shortage because I could not envision my life without brussel sprouts in it. But that takes time. It doesn’t make sense for me to start listing brussel sprouts among my favorite foods if I haven’t tasted them or even after I’ve had them once.

Do I really have a lot to lose by letting things play out as they will? I don’t think so. Indeed, this is probably the way things are meant to go. It’s natural and organic, not pumped up with artificial feelings of intimacy and labels. That doesn’t work.


Let’s consider my experience with my first serious boyfriend. I did not have a serious boyfriend until I was 21 years old (not for lack of trying; prior to that I “dated” – re: held hands with – a guy when I was in the 7th grade for two months). I was so enamored with the possibility of having a serious boyfriend that I didn’t really closely examine some of the things he was telling me about himself. Had I examined them closely, they would not have passed a smell test. High levels of bullshit were excreted from the beginning. One day I will list out all of the red flags I should have seen had I not been in a rush to get into a serious relationship. He partially moved into my apartment. Hell, mother fucker wanted to discuss engagement rings after a few weeks! 😳

Thirty year-old me looks back and wants to say (in Kevin Hart voice) “Noooooooooooooooo!”

An interesting side note to that whole experience was that, years later, a supposed “co-worker” of my ex contacted me. Said co-worker claimed that my ex really looked up to and admired me. The co-worker wondered if I would contact my ex out of friendship because, in part, my ex seems lonely. FUCK NO. I did not even respond to the email. I wish I still had it though, just to revel in the what-the-fuckness.


Speaking of odd interactions, Stripper Guy re-entered my life briefly. He basically wreaking havoc before I once again declared no more. I recounted the interactions we were having to some people and one pointed out that Stripper Guy was abusive. This person was surprised I was putting up with this dude’s shit. I had expressed frustration with Stripper Guy’s flakiness and Stripper Guy chastised me for overthinking things. He questioned my taste because I like dumb comedies. And he accused me of throwing tantrums and being volatile when I got upset about being stood up for the umpteenth time when we were meant to go have drinks. Basically Gaslighting 101. Even strong, smart women can be gaslit.


To conclude, I need to learn to balance my desire for definition with the need to let things happen on their own. You can’t cut cooking time by doubling the temperature of the oven. You can’t force bread to rise faster. You can’t will water to boil if you just placed it on the stove.

But I still don’t know that I want to try brussel sprouts.