I feel old, at thirty. I feel as if when I was first working at P, there was this power I gained every time someone made the mistake of thinking I was one of my students, of thinking I was still in high school. There was power in being twenty-two, in having that stretch of possibility that was my twenties extending out in front of me.
Now I’m looking back on this decade and I don’t know what happened. It’s been four years since M and I broke up. Four years and I’m still doing the online dating thing, still going to sleep by myself, still sleeping with idiots who I don’t care about, who don’t care about me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I’m also too hard on myself to recognize anything that I might be doing right.
Meanwhile, my relationship with H finally ended just before the new year after I finally accepted that he just, to use the cliched phrase, was not that into me. I’d spent months and months waiting for his phone calls, for his texts, for his e-mails. There would be small bursts of communication from him and then nothing, and I was totally consumed by him. I couldn’t see my way out of it. Couldn’t see that I was miserable, that he had done nothing to make me happy. Of course, I know that I need to look to myself to find happiness, not to someone else.
Still, there is this hope, deep within me, that I will be able to find someone.
Last night, I sent this guy an e-mail who looks kind of lame, but I thought, at least he’ll e-mail me back and then we can go on a date and it will be something to do this weekend. I awoke to an empty inbox. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, and I also don’t know why I’m so craving the attention, why I can’t be happy on my own. I feel as if not having someone else to go to sleep with means I’m not anchored, means I’m adrift.
I also hate that I still miss M. That I was thinking about him last night, wishing he was beside me. It’s so cliché. It’s so predictable. I’ve missed him for four years. He will never want me back.