“Protecting Your Peace” Has Ruined Dating

I seldom have the experience of feeling excited while getting ready for a first date. Actually, no, I’ve never felt excited. Curious, sure. Excited? Never.

I usually feel like my clothes aren’t fitting my body the way they should. In fact, all of my clothes are awful. Why do I even own any of this? I can’t wear anything in my closet and now my clothes are all over my room which will be great to come back home to. Something about my face doesn’t look quite right. Are my eyes too small? Is my head too big? No. That’s not it. I think my torso is too long. Maybe I’m not pretty. Or I’m pretty sometimes, but never the prettiest in the room. Who wants to go on a date with that? There’s nothing appealing about average. I also feel boring. So incredibly boring. My personality is comparable to watching paint dry. What will I talk about that hasn’t been talked about before? What opinions can I share that haven’t been shared before? What jokes can I make that are funny? (They’re not usually laugh-out-loud-funny, but funny enough to make them smile and acknowledge that I can be funny.)

The anxiety typically dissipates within the first minute of the date, but really I think it festers into something else. If the date is going poorly, you anxiously wonder how you’ll escape it and how you’ll word the text about “not feeling a connection” or something in the same vein that’s equally as dreadful. If the date is going well, you anxiously wonder what’ll happen next, if anything. Will they tell you that they had a great time and want to see you again? Will they say anything at all? Will it seem promising for the first week and then come to a standstill? This is the risk that’s taken with each date you go on with each stranger who becomes a person. Very rarely will it become something beautiful like a marriage where you have a fenced backyard, a neighborhood with a cul-de-sac, and two precious children. And yet we often feel like it will.

It’s safer that these people stay strangers. It’s peaceful that way. Better for your heart. With nothing invested, there’s nothing to lose, but there’s also nothing to gain. I often see people state that they’re “protecting their peace,” when really they’re self-isolating. They find an excuse to avoid the first date, stating busyness — because saying “lack of interest” is frowned upon — and that they have a lot going on. They entertain conversation and texts back-and-forth, maybe even indulging in the fantasy of planning a first date, but there’s never any execution. That would make it all too real.

We refuse to strike up a conversation with a stranger at the bar because what if they judge us? We refuse to say what’s really on our mind because what if it’s too much? We refuse to compliment them because what if they don’t feel the same? We have developed such an aversion to taking any risk that poses a threat to our pride. In the process of fearing embarrassment and vulnerability, we sacrifice the opportunity for genuine connection. Is a life alone really a peace worth protecting?

After my first time falling in love, I’ve refused to “protect my peace.” Love changes the way you see the world. It all becomes brighter, as if you hadn’t truly lived until you’ve loved and been loved. I’ve always found it nearly heaven-like that there is something on this planet that makes us feel so much lighter, as if floating on a cloud of cotton candy. The most mundane can feel extravagant as long as you’re together, and life becomes beautiful in a way you never knew possible.

I was very hopeful about love before I fell for the first time. It’ll happen because it has to. It happens to everyone. I felt like marriage was a birthright promised to me instead of something that’s earned and worked for. Now, I feel jaded about love. Those who appear initially promising dwindle into nothing, whether it’s due to no communication at all or just being two differently shaped puzzle pieces that don’t fit together no matter how much you try to push and prod them together.

I’ve taken the risks that love requires. I go on dates. I tell them I like them and cross my fingers, hoping it’s reciprocated. I’ve felt headaches and heartaches. I’ve cried and I’ve felt empty, as if the last hopeful parts of my heart have been forcibly scraped from my body, as if a virus my body has to rid itself of. I keep telling myself that someone will understand and someone will love me and someday it’ll all be worth it. One day, I’ll look back and laugh. One day, I will. I will, I will, I will.

I hold my own hand as I try to coax myself into sleep. I pray that one day those who disposed of me will regret it in the way I always do. Over time, “definitely” became “maybe.” I don’t feel the conviction that I initially felt in the affirmation of, “One day I’ll find lasting love.” Maybe, one day, my twisted humor will be missed and my presence will be yearned for in the way I always wanted it to be. Maybe. Just maybe.

I’ve said many times before, “If this one fails, I’m done” when referring to a new relationship. And yet, as I’ve repeated it every time, I’m not done and I don’t think I’ll ever be. And that serves as proof that while I may feel tired and I may feel exhaust that sinks deep into my bones, as if replacing the marrow, there is still hope inside of my heart that maybe someday I’ll have it.

And perhaps that hope will transform my “maybe” back into “definitely.”

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