This is the End, My Only Friend

August has at last arrived, with more golden, searing days looming ahead. Still, the air has already begun to hum the first faint strains of September. It seemed to me that July came screaming in like a headstrong youth, full of dizzy joy and unfulfilled promises. Now, like Dickinson's "certain slant of light", there is a slow heaviness and a change to the season. A slight tinge of introspection can be found in August, a mellowness and a resignation that comes from the knowledge of one's eventual end.

Speaking of the end: I have decided that my sojourn into the world of Tinder, while ofttimes amusing, must come to an abrupt terminus. This is not necessarily because I didn't meet anyone - on the contrary, I have talked with quite a few men, and met one or two people of seeming quality, during my brief stint as a serial swiper. The trouble is that, in 95% of these cases, the individual in question lived on the mainland, or in Seattle, or some location that was equally-troublesome to get to. I've just recently experienced the frustration and eventual heartache that comes from attempting to forge a long-distance relationship. At this point, I simply can't go through with it again.

A further complication and impediment to my recent attempts at dating also proves to be something much harder to shake: Myself. More to the point, it is my own indolence and complete apathy toward the process that prevents me from making any real attempt at it. In any recent situations in which I have made plans with men who actually live in or are visiting our fair island city, I end up cancelling at the last minute, in favor of the perfect solitude of my apartment.

Case in point: Tonight, I was to meet up with what seemed to be a very decent chap for some beverages and a walking tour of Ross Bay Cemetery, (which, as a card-carrying member of the Old Cemeteries Society of Victoria, I would have been pleased to lead). Said individual is currently visiting from London, Ontario on tour with his band. He is completing a PhD in something or other, and at least seemed articulate enough to hold a conversation, as well as legitimately interested in my knowledge of the world-famous Victorian cemetery. So, what was the problem, then? 

I couldn't put my finger on it, but the more I considered the impending evening, the more I began to panic and over-analyze the possible scenarios. Firstly, was it weird to go on a date with someone I didn't know from Adam? What if we hated each other? What if only one of us disliked the other, making for some supremely awkward hug goodbye situation at the end of the evening?  Could this even be considered a date at all? Perhaps it was merely a friendly, historic visit to one of my favourite haunts. But then, was HE thinking it was a date? What was he expecting to come of this, since he didn't live here and was leaving town on Thursday? Did he think we were going to have sex? And like, where?? On top of the Whittington family plot?? And what if he didn't have that expectation, and we both ended up liking each other, and he just took off back to Ontario and I was stuck trying to forge a bond again with someone who was never there??

After fifteen minutes of this, I looked around at my comfortable bed, my bottle of Yellowtail Shiraz and my copy of Jasper Ridley's "The Tudor Age", and felt my anxiety melting away. I picked up my phone and I cancelled on the poor lad, who despondently told me that he would be drinking wine alone in the cemetery, should I change my mind. I didn't write back. Instead, I made a big bowl of pasta, painted my nails, changed the sugar-water mixture in the hummingbird feeder and had a most self-indulgent nap.

I know now that the pursuit of relationships, dates, flings, etc is something that is truly no longer a priority in my life. I used to think these things were all that mattered, or that I was somehow deficient and unworthy since I didn't have someone in my life. I used to feel an enormous jealousy and bitterness as I listened to the girls at work talk about their husbands, about the holidays and home renovations they were undertaking together, about the funny or cute or endearing thing He said last night.

 I used to think that a relationship or a marriage was some sort of grand achievement, a prize that I was too "fucked up" to ever achieve. Something has changed in me, now, something almost as imperceptible as the shift in the light as the summer wears on. For the first time in my adult life, I have begun to ask myself just how great of an achievement a relationship actually is. In fact, when I ponder this question in greater detail, I realize that  "having a boyfriend"  or "getting married" is as mediocre, pathetic and perfectly ordinary a life goal as they come. Anyone can do those things. Why not do something that no one else can? Why not aim for something loftier than a pinterest wedding board and arguing over the position of the toilet seat?

I think I'm finally figuring out that I can go on a date, or hook up with a man, whenever I want. But most of the time, if I really consider it, I realize that I don't want to at all.