Catching my therapist up on my not so successful DCSingles dates, Sondra pauses and thoughtfully poses the obvious question:
“So, Joani, what do you want?”
“What do I want?”
Well, not Bernie Sanders. I already wrote about him.
And not the guy who is afraid of his own shadow — who I met for coffee on Friday — who has barely been out of his neighborhood for the past forty years.
And not the thrice married widower of just one year who I met last week. A sixty-eight year old guy who has no idea how to be on his own.
My social experiments — so far — are a net negative — negatively defining what I desire in a date.
I am not looking for Friday evenings at home in front of the TV.
I am not looking for someone to keep me company.
I am not hoping to set up house.
I am not looking to couple up monogamously anytime soon.
I am just looking for someone who can keep up with me.
And there is nothing I find sexier and more attractive in a man than the organ found between the ears.
So, let me describe an acceptable gentleman.
Intellectually curious, reads real books.
Forward looking, hope filled, expansive world view.
Funny, laughs freely, and delights in the absurd.
Earthy and unorthodox.
Open to surprise.
Hungry for life.
Someone who can light up all of my little gray cells,
and for whom I can do likewise,
like fireflies.
“Go on,” says my therapist.
Not a spouse.
Not a housemate.
Not a guy friend.
Not all the time.
Someone with their own house, their own life.
Happy and whole.
An intimate,
available for adventure,
available for dinner,
available for a weekend.
Someone who loves a good argument.
Someone who makes me very happy behind closed doors.
Someone who gets back in his car and goes home —
until I summon him back again.
Yes, that sounds heavenly.
“Hmmmm,” Sondra says. “Is that really possible? Most ‘older’ men are looking for something more comfy and conventional.”
“Well, someone younger then! But how crazy is that?”
Sondra is not telling me to settle but she does encourage me to think this through.
The depths of my desire add up to having a mad affair — while dates in my demographic double down on domestic bliss.
Which leaves me feeling clueless, somewhat unsettled, and unsure of myself.
I definitely don’t want “that”.
Maybe I don’t want “this” at all.
And I will be damned — if I ever let some nonexistent man — make me second guess myself.
Matchmaking is madness!
It makes my manic mind spiral and spin, trying to puzzle this f*ing thing out.
The smartest girl in the class waves her hands in the air but she has no answers.
Navigating an ocean of emotion.
Unmoored.
Without a compass.
At sea.
And I guess for now, that is just how it has to be.
For now, I remain
incredibly
clueless.
Singularly yours,
The Rev: Joani
1963. Open my wardrobe and what do you see?
Sex & The Single Vicar 
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