It's time to see dating differently. This is a training ground...

After over ten years of severe singledom, I decided to look back to see where my relationship status had gone awry.

I spent years comparing myself to other women, specifically other women with boyfriends or husbands and analyzing all the things I should be doing differently. What did they have that I didn’t?  Am I not pretty enough? Intelligent enough? Skinny enough? Maybe I need to make the first move? Dress sexier? Join a co-ed softball league? Go to more dive bars?

Although, externally I possessed all the trappings of “a great catch” (good job, loving family, awesome friends, well-traveled, athletic, motivated, open-minded, and living in the greatest city in the world) I didn’t believe I was enough as I was.

I tailored my outfits, my activities, my inflection…all in hopes it would fit his bill, meet his approval, or match his enthusiasm. What would please him? What would make him like me more?  And in some cases it was a fictional “he,” the aspirational “he,”…. the “he” I was absolutely certain I was going to meet because I was wearing the irresistible romper and bootie ensemble, or because I dominated Buck Hunter. 

I dumbed myself down. I talked myself up. I wore spanx. I went commando. I feigned interest in futbol. I inflated my knowledge of financial jargon. And legal jargon. And six point conversions. I ordered the burger instead of salad. I wrote clever emails. I made the first move.  I waited a few hours to text him back. I flaunted my ping pong skills. I hid my vision board. I watched Blade Runner…again. I cancelled other plans to see him. Hell, I flew cross-country to see him. I shot-gunned beers. I waxed every hair off my hoo-ha even though it makes my pee flow unruly.  I ran faster. I slept later. I wore mascara to the gym. I endured game-watches and tailgates and football sundays. I started drinking scotch. I stopped speaking in a British accent. I faked pleasure. I faked periods. I crashed my friend’s honeymoon suite. I talked to strangers.  I made out with two best friends in one night. I picked up the bill.

Therein, lay the problem. I was so busy trying to orchestrate my every inclination to what (I imagined) might please a potential suitor, I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted anymore. I was a chameleon.

The truth is I’m loud. I’m a teller of stories. A jokesmith. I prefer kale and banana smoothies to vodka sodas. I eat hay. Sometimes I wear the same pair of jeans for a week without washing. I can quote every line of "Dumb and Dumber" on que. I covet heels and jewelry, though usually just wear yoga pants. I’d choose $3 hole-in-the-wall burritos over a fancy dinner. I have been known to break out in spontaneous song (and dance). When I laugh too hard, I pee a little bit. I have big dreams and a bigger nose. I have more extracurricular activities than a cub scout.  My feet are beyond ugly. I have Spanish tourettes. I’m a peacemaker with a severe case of catholic guilt.

Ten years single, and a marathon-length of men in my rear view; I’ve finally realized it was never about the man anyway. It is about accepting myself: M.A.N.

It is not he who will make me whole; rather it is the act of embracing, exposing and unapologetically unveiling the authentic me that eventually will.

MAN-a-thon is a training ground to become your best self, a forum for women who are stressing, obsessing, starving, waxing, worrying, lamenting, questioning, condemning and censoring themselves under the false belief that they are not ‘enough’ as they are. You cannot fall in love with Mr. Right until you fall in love with yourself.  I hope you’ll join me…

Love and the self are one. The discovery of either is the realization of both.

-Anonymous