He Was Everything I Didn't Want And I Dated Him Anyway - Part 2

Part 2: Changing up your type can leave out some good guys. Or maybe they're left out for good reason.

So against my better judgement, I decided to give Little Pauly Facebook a chance. And to my pleasant surprise, he did not pump one single fist. Not one! A triumph indeed. In fact, I'll admit that I prejudged his "type" and could easily have dismissed him. But, this is a Part Two, so you know what that means. It means something went wrong. Something went terribly wrong. Something went dreadfully, "I love you" on the second date, hunting for a wife, almost pooped my pants wrong. Let's examine a little closer, shall we?

He was Italian. Yeah, well, so am I. I don't have a blow out, I'm not oompa loopa orange, I don't drive an IROC Z, and I don't have a Bump-It (any real Jersey girl knows how to get that height with nothing but a comb and some aerosol). Believe it or not, you can be an Italian in New Jersey and NOT be a guido. He knew the same foods I did and we used the same slang. He valued his family and could cook his ass off - hello inner fatty! And hey, at least he didn't live in his mother's basement or have a big Italian flag tattoo on his arm with some barbed wire accents. And maybe, just maybe, sometimes he ever so gently grazed the guido line. But no, it didn't bother me that he fit the type I was trying to avoid.

He wasn't local.

He lived an hour away, and yes, it meant we needed to plan ahead. But he always took the initiative to make time for me. He would tell me when he was going to be in the area, and he would make arrangements for when he wasn't. I appreciated that, even if the gas tank on my little Civic did not. So no, nope, the distance isn't what did it.

He already knew me. College was a long time ago. Ooo, girl, a long time ago. I've grown. I wanted to introduce myself to someone as the modern Michele, and not the Easy Mac, bed on risers, wine in a box, Natty Light Michele. BUT, Little Pauly Facebook and I were only acquaintances all those years ago, so he actually didn't really know me (or that I could balance beer bottles on my stomach while doing a backbend - true story) so I still got to reintroduce him to the mature, classy, refined lady I've so elegantly blossomed into.

So, here's where you're thinking - he was handsome, family oriented, attentive, comfortable, and he made plans - what was the problem?

The problem was... he was younger than me.

Now hold up! Do not give me that bullshit that age doesn’t matter, it’s just a number, two and a half years is nothing. I know all that! I am well aware of these things! The women in my family have a long history of dating younger men, those minxy cougars. But I'm not really talking about our age difference.

With age comes wisdom. I can say that, you know, because I'm 30 now. And do you know what else comes with age? Maturity - or what I like to call, knowing how to handle your shit. Now, surely this 27 year old was more mature than Josh, the never-ending ghoster, who happened to be 35, so I'm well aware that age and maturity are not a blatant blanket. BUT, when I tell you one of my exes was a massive cheater, don't make a joke about other women to diffuse a tense situation. And when I tell you that singing in public is a huge fear and you're coming to an event where I'm singing, don't invite your mother and your grandmother so that they can meet me and my parents for the first time - unless you want me to pee my pants on stage. AND when I tell you that I want my new career to be a priority for me right now, don't tell me that I'm making excuses because I'm scared of commitment.

Dafuq you say?

Listen up, young stud. I'm passed the phase of being swept up in the whirlwind of my 20s, where you're still trying to decide want you really want out of life. I'm over the flightiness of thinking I'll figure it out one day. I've done that. I do know what I want - both professionally and personally - and taking time to make sure you're it is not being afraid of commitment. It's being smart and making myself a priority. I know what I want and I'm going after it. So you can either keep up, or get off my lawn.

Yes, the immaturity came out in full swing, not in his best Ace Venutra allllllrighty then, but when he blamed all of our differences on what he called my "guarded heart". Hell yes, my wall is so good and sturdy even Donald Trump marvels at how it was built (yeah, I said it), but my wall is MY wall. And I decide for whom to let it down. I realized I want guy who understands what it means to do some real adulting - and I'm not talking separating laundry or getting your own EZ Pass. I want a dude who realizes that good communication doesn't just mean Facetiming me every single night (and at all hours of the day, and from the top of a mountain, and while out with friends). And I definitely do not want a man who doesn't understand when I'm breaking things off the first two times.

It's true. It took me two dinners and a very long Facetime conversation before he finally understood that it just was not going to work out. Or at least I thought he understood. In fact, I literally bumped into him at a bar five months later and do you know what he said?

"So, tell me, what really happened with us? We had so much fun together."

I not so subtly rolled my eyes and responded, "I have told you, three times, the exact same thing. Would you like me to make something up that's more juicy? Do you want me to lie? We are not on the same page. That's it!"

Harsh? Maybe. A little bitchy? Probably. But, Italian, not Italian, dark hair, light hair, 5 o'clock shadow, or patchy peach fuzz - none of that mattered. You know how they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? My dating life had become insanity, and not just because I lived in the land of "We Pump Fists Not Gas" bumper stickers. I didn't want to date a project - I'm not your mother. I didn't want the mysterious bad boy - I did that, and ended up getting my money stolen (also a true story). I was finally ready to date the nice guy - a man with a good head on his shoulders, a happy heart, and a well balanced sense of life and work and play. A tall order, for sure. But if I could do it, well then shit, I know somewhere out there other people are doing it too, and it was worth waiting for.

Oh. And of course, by tall order I also mean at least six feet tall... with nice shoulders. What can I say, some habits never die.

#thebad #independence