Bowflex

He texts me, Update: I’m trying to figure out how to do sled pulls on the Bowflex. There’s so much wrong packed into this statement that I don’t know what to say to him, so I decide on silence instead.

Nothing obliterates my interest more quickly than men trying to relate to me through a common interest in the gym – mostly because it’s powerlifting that I’m actually focused on, versus being able to claim that I “hit the gym” however many times a week. I actively avoid the strange, ineffective bodybuilding routines that I see men performing; bad programming is just something I don’t tolerate or respect. To that end, I absolutely would not be caught dead on a Bowflex. (Although up until his text, I forgot those were even a thing. For the rest of the year, and perhaps for the rest of my life, I’m going to be perplexed by the fact that someone tried to woo me via their experience with equipment advertised on TV at 3am, following demonstrations of OxyClean and Nad’s.)

Also, no one can do sled drags on a Bowflex. That’s just a solid case of what the fuck.

He texts me a day later, Change of heart?

I say, I’m just really busy. I can’t really do a lot of back and forth texting. I’m sorry.

I block his number. I guess I’m one of those girls.

 

“I think I love you,” he says, rubbing his bristly, balding head against my arm.

For the past several hours, I’ve spent the night hearing about his job and his friends. When I mentioned that I like video games and played World of Warcraft in high school, he added very one sided conversations about his experiences as a gamer to the long list of topics he went on about. Things haven’t improved, and instead of engaging with anything I say in response, so far he’s just smiled dreamily at me before rolling into whatever subject next came to his mind.

The “I think I love you” statement catches me by surprise, though. We’re a few drinks deep into a long night, and if he’s already drunk, I’m embarrassed for him. We’re not exactly connecting and yet he seems to think there’s a vibe; I briefly wonder if I’ve been in his current position without realizing it on first dates. Before I can tell myself the thought isn’t worth my energy, he kisses my hand several times, sloppy and with sound, bringing my mind to a decision tree where the first fork is a choice between pulling away and letting him do his thing. I’m not here to make him feel bad, so I just deal with this overt public display of affection from a man I do not know all that well before interjecting with, “It’s getting late. The trains aren’t running as frequently past midnight. I should make a move.”

“I’ll walk you back to the PATH,” he says.

Oh, goodie.

We leave the small West Village bar and walk in a silence that is more uncomfortable for me than it is for him. I’m already thinking about how I’ll tell him tomorrow that I just wasn’t feeling it, or that it’s too much trouble for me to go into the city with my current routine. He, on the other hand, is humming, rubbing his thumb against the palm of my hand. He’s happy. Because of me, or because he thinks this is a very successful date.

When we reach the PATH, he leans in to kiss me. I reciprocate because it’s the easiest thing I can do at this stage. I don’t want to deal with his disappointment. I want to avoid a confrontation.

He’s attractive enough. Still, his self-importance leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

 

Alone on a Sunday, I find my thoughts drawn to the men I did love. I’m not unhappy to be relaxing by myself at home. I don’t miss them. Relationships, I’m coming to realize, are probably the worst thing to happen to me. It’s in this area that my self-esteem is worn thin, damaged by long history of abuse, and still recovering. (I wonder if my usual detachment to dating is only interrupted by the men who will break my heart because that’s my conditioning. Love is pain, sacrifice without gain.) I’m afraid that most people are too good for me. Give me a man without a car, who doesn’t know where he’s going in life, and I’m in love.

Perhaps I find silly reasons to write off successful people. Maybe I should give the man trying to impress me with the Bowflex a chance or see if Mr. Self Important is better at having a conversation after a couple more dates. On the other hand, maybe it’s time for me to be alone, to not use dating as a crutch. In some ways, I feel like all I’m doing is conducting a search for the next fuck that will make me miserable, but who I will nonetheless be devoted to as part of my pathological inability to form, or even want, healthy relationships.

Climb

Maybe she’s just prettier. Perhaps he was just an easy choice, more malleable than the men I’ve chased, more emotionally available. I don’t know the answer, but I bring my imagination to their relationship regardless. He just looks so happy to be here with her that I can’t help but wonder what they discussed on the car ride over, if they went out for brunch first at one of Hoboken’s nearby bars. The man’s smile, fixed across his bearded face, probably made her feel warm when she walked with him side by side, even in the chilly outdoors.

When it occurs to me that no one has looked at me that way in a long time, I feel a sense of sadness that’s difficult to put into words. I’m often the object of people’s lust, but I have felt little in the way of being loved.

I come back to the thought that I’m lacking. I always do. She looks more like a woman compared to me, at least from what I can see at a distance. Her climbing skills are certainly better than mine: she’s ascending the white and blue rock wall at a steady clip, pushing off footholds with her long legs. Whereas she’s graceful and lithe, I’m brute strength in an incongruously small and childlike package. It’s likely not just about the looks, either. I’ve had a hard life. I have baggage.

If jealousy and envy are not the same, then it’s the latter I feel when her companion shouts “to the left.” I’ve asked Sean, who is not my boyfriend, to become belay certified, but that’s too much of a commitment for the man I regularly drive to the rock gym.

I watch him now, his black work shirt rolling up his back as he makes his way on one of the bouldering walls. He finds the routes easier to solve than I do, especially since we started climbing together regularly, and completes a V5 that I can’t even start. For such a tall and not particularly graceful man, he looks athletic as he reaches for the next hold. When he climbs down and turns to smile at me, I feel my stomach tighten: my body knows what my mind denies, that I’m hoping for something to happen that never will.

Eventually he will become one half of the couples I desire to be, but I won’t be the woman to close the circle. Friend, fuck buddy, lover – but not his girlfriend, and not his partner.

It will never be you, he’ll eventually tell me. But I know this now. The problem is that I hold onto the lessons of my childhood: the people you love are supposed to cause you pain; the more pain you bear, the more true your feelings. He doesn’t love me, and he may not even care about me. But I accept that, because it’s not the worst way someone’s responded to my love for them.

In a year, I’ll excavate the part of me that considers what I deserve in relation to how I’m treated, but that will be a sad day too, because what I will realize is that I don’t know how to give love to men that are able to love me in return. If I don’t suffer, it’s just not real. What a joke, I’ll think, to come so far in my life and still be so broken.

For now, however, it’s my turn to climb. I push my hands, one after the other, through the opening of my chalk bag, a white plume following each motion. “You were awesome,” I say to Sean. And I walk past him, placing my fingers on the start of a problem I can solve.