I went on a date this weekend—our third in fact—with a lovely, delightfully tall, gentlemen with a nice smile and good sense of humor.  We drank beers out of mason jars and ate pork nachos on our first date, nachos and BLT sandwiches on our second, chips and salsa on our third (we also sensed the theme).  He was charming.  And I was mostly smitten, swayed by the tweed jacket and our shared love of Kurt Vonnegut.

But as we wandered through Adams Morgan late Saturday afternoon he said—I’m sorry, I really like you, I’m not ready to hop into another relationship—and I understood.  For I’d sat across or walked next to lovely men with nice smiles before, also too emotionally close to my last relationship, and knew like he did that I couldn’t engage at that time.  I’ve twisted myself into the same pretzel, I told him.  Take some time to untangle yourself.  And then we got ice cream cones and walked up to the zoo to look at the otters.

I am still untangling myself as well, to be fair.  But with every twist and turn there is release, as twisting yourself up into the tiny space another person makes available for you is a cramped, dark place.  And therefore, the untangling a relief.

And besides, other people’s baggage—such a bitch.  It really is about timing, huh?


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