2024 Jeep Grand Cherokee Overland 4xe PHEV: Road Trip Realness

When you find out you need to do a 6-hour round-trip drive with two tweenage boys to attend a judo competition, you want to make sure you have a vehicle that’s comfortable, efficient and has enough room to keep everyone happy and fit all necessary items.

Enter the 2024 Jeep Grand Cherokee Overland 4xe.

True, this particular trim is one of the more expensive of the Grand Cherokee lineup, starting at just over $80k, but with everything it offers in terms of amenities and performance, if you’ve got the pennies I say it’s well worth trading them in for one.

Grand Cherokee Goodness  

Let’s start with the exterior look of this midsize Jeep. While not the largest by far – park it next to the Wagoneer and it’ll look like a crossover, trust me – it definitely has a large presence on the road. Featuring that oh-so-iconic linear Jeep front grille, the Overland is sophisticated and classy in its exterior design. There’s nothing futuristic of “boat rocking” about the aesthetic of the Grand Cherokee – and that’s perfect. There’s something comforting about an age-old design that won’t get tiresome as it ages.

The only real difference between the 4xe and non-4xe in terms of exterior look is, obviously, the extra port door for the charge cable and the subtle, yet stylish, bright blue accents in the tow cables and in the 4xe badging. It’s a small touch, but I appreciate the effort Jeep took to set their 4xe models apart from the regular gas-powered only versions.

Inside, the sophisticated, classy aesthetic continues. Sure, everything is big and kind of boxy, but it works. And my God are those seats comfortable. After spending many hours in them, I have to say I may put the Cherokee seats at the top of my “most comfortable on the market today” list. It also helps that they were heated and offered up various massage settings too – great for staying awake and keeping muscle soreness at bay!

The centre stack is beautifully designed and well appointed. All buttons are where you expect and the onboard infotainment is a breeze to use and navigate. There is a practical charge pad, as well as plenty of USB ports for all passengers and driver to charge and connect. There is even the option to connect two phones to the front system via CarPlay or Android Auto. How? Well, the passenger has their own infotainment screen that appears just above the glovebox. Don’t worry though, it’s not visible to the driver so no worries about distracted driving if the front-seat passenger decides to connect an Amazon FireStick or another HDMI-capable entertainment port.

Speaking of which: the tweens in the backseat …

Road Trip Ready – Sort Of

While it was only a 3-day journey, with a two-night stay in Quebec City, it still required some serious packing skills and setting up the boys in the backseat to “endure” the 3-hour drive there, and back.

Immediately, the boys were ecstatic about having a screen each to themselves. This was met with immediate disappointment upon discovering there was no onboard hotspot and so the available NetFlix/Disney buttons on their remotes were useless. I did attempt to hotspot to my phone for a little bit in an attempt to let them login to Disney and watch downloaded movies, but within 5 mines my phone pinged that I had reach over 50% of data usage for the month (which is a total of 18G and had JUST renewed), and so was promptly disconnected.

Had I brought one of our Amazon FireSticks, the same thing would have ensued. And even my son’s Nintendo Switch base, which he technically could have plugged in as well, would have been rendered useless without wifi of some sort.

So, the screens stayed off and blank – which seems a shame. I didn’t explore it further, and perhaps the option is there, but you should have the ability to connect the car to a nearby wifi (thinking McDondald’s or a Starbuck) from the parking lot to properly connect to your streaming service and access previously downloaded content.

Besides that, the boys had plenty of space in the second row. Despite having to place a cooler there and a few small bags. The trunk is actually much smaller than you’d think, with just over 1,070 litres available. That sounds like a huge amount, but it somehow got eaten up very quickly by overnight bags, judo equipment and snacks for the weekend.

4xe Efficiency

Highway driving tends to be the most efficient type of driving for all cars, however, when you have a car that weighs nearly 5,000 lbs on its own and is fully loaded with gear and kids, that efficiency quickly dwindles.

However, such was not the case with the Grand Cherokee 4xe.

I did not spend much time in full-EV mode, although had I charged it more than the one time I did while having dinner in Quebec City, I would have had access to between 30-40km of full battery power after each full charge. Otherwise, there is a 2.0L turbocharged 4-cylinder under the hood that produces 270 horsepower and 295 lb-ft of torque. More than enough for the Grand Cherokee to feel capable and steady. It’s not about being fast in a vehicle this size and stature.

The Grand Cherokee did super well in terms of fuel efficiency with an average of just over 11L/100km after the full weekend of driving. I often felt it flip from gas to battery while cruising, and it would regenerate power on its own.

My only gripe was the jerky cold starts. The Jeep had a hard time getting going each morning. Trust me, I know how it feels on a cold winter morning to get into gear, but I really felt it in the Grand Cherokee. Gears would stick, it would jerk violently when it would finally shift, and the engine noise was excessive until it had properly warmed up.

Suspension is wonderful, and while most Grand Cherokee Overlands will never see proper mud or rocks to climb, this Jeep has all the ability to do so when asked!

Weekend Warrior

Overall, the Jeep Grand Cherokee Overland 4xe comes with all the bells and whistles you’d expect for the price it carries. Sure, it’s a lot of money, but it’s also a lot of vehicle. From nose to tail, the Grand Cherokee delivers on what it promises, and it does it well. The added bonus of an available EV drive also means that if you travel short distances throughout the day and have a charger at home, you’ll spend much less time and money at the pumps than your neighbour with the full-gas version (and all the same amenities).

2023 Chrysler Pacifica S: The Pinnacle of People-Movers

Ah, the minivan. Some say, it’s a place where souls go to die. In fact, I used to think that too, until I drove one – and that was far too many years ago now to really talk about. Since that first drive behind the wheel of a certain JDM-branded people-hauler, I was sold on not only the driveability but the sheer practicality of the minivan.

Fast-forward many, many, many years later, and I admit to being oddly excited every time I get to book a three-rowed, sliding-door steed. Especially when it’s a Chrysler Pacifica.

Now, this particular version is not the first Pacifica I’ve had the pleasure of piloting over the past few years, and it likely won’t be the last either. And I am perfectly OK with that. The good folks at FCA have managed to perfect the minivan in ways I didn’t think were possible. With pricing that ranges from the low $50k range all the way up to $72k (before freight and prep), Chrysler has also done a great job at expanding the Pacifica lineup since it was first re-released a few years ago.

Those Minivan Proportions

Now, here’s where the people-hauler loses some audience: the look. It’s hard to call a van “sexy” or “sleek,” but I’ll admit that Chrysler designers came pretty damn close to at least making the Pacifica look athletic and slightly more toned than some of the other vans on the road today.

The overly large Chrysler symbol across the

There’s no denying that size matters when it comes to vans, and the Chrysler Pacifica is large in all the right ways offering up an incredible amount of interior space thanks to its overall design. With all rows and seats in place, the Pacifica boasts 912 litres of cargo space. Yes, you read that correctly. Now, fold those 2 rows down and that skyrockets to an impressive and almost unbelievable 3,979 litres.

The possibilities are endless.

And just because it has a generous amount of interior space, doesn’t mean it has to feel boxy or unattractive. If you’ve not stepped inside a Chrysler Pacifica as of late, I recommend you do. For a moment, you may think you’ve stepped into the wrong vehicle and somehow opened the doors of a Cadillac or Genesis – something much more upscale and luxurious. The diamond-quilted, bolstered seats (in all rows) even feature Chrysler’s renowned (and much-loved) Stow ‘n’ Go technology which means all seats can be folded flat into the floor easily, which allows for all that amazing cargo space.

The second-row features available entertainment screens to keep those smaller passengers happy on longer trips – and trust me it does.

Backseat Perspective of the Pacifica

It’s often hard for me to fully appreciate anything other than the driver’s seat when I drive a media car. After all, I am the sole driver. It is extremely rare that I sit in the passenger seat and even more unheard of that I sit in the second or third row of any vehicle.

So, who better to tell me all about the best bits and bobs of the backseat than my own flesh and blood?

Now 12 years old, Owen spends much more time in the front passenger seat than the back seats, however, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to enjoy the luxury and spaciousness of the Pacifica.

His main talking points were as follows:

• Super cool and easy-to-use screen with fun games already pre-loaded. (Side note, he discovered these all on his own for the very first time when the Pacifica was relaunched, and he was only 5 at the time.)

• Seats are incredibly comfortable (and he quite enjoyed the extra quilted pillow on each 2^nd row captain’s chair) and easy to adjust. Bonus: He could lie completely flat if he wanted to.

• FamCam is so awesome. Owen would often ask me to turn it on while I was driving so he could “talk to me” through it (read: make funny faces at the camera).

• Third row is actually really spacious and comfortable. As a kid who is already as tall as mum (5’2”) he easily got in and out of the furthest row. His only complaint? Too far away from all the action up front.

Now, these may seem like pretty standard comments from backseat passengers, but here’s the thing: not all three-row vehicles are created equal, and we’ve discovered that over the years, too.  From the very first time Owen climbed into the back of the Pacifica, nary was there a complaint from him.

That’s high praise for a minivan since it stands to reason those who park one in their driveway permanently will indeed fill those two back rows with tiny humans who will not hesitate to tell you when things aren’t just the way they expect or want.

Tricks and Treats for All

Of course, the name of the game these days is connectivity and gadgets onboard – and the Chrysler Pacifica has plenty of that! The onboard system is a breeze to use, with clear buttons on the 10.1” colour touchscreen and easy-to-access steering-wheel buttons, as well. Of course, there is Bluetooth for voice-activated commands and available Apply CarPlay or Android Auto.

I adore the upfront cargo space with nooks an crannies and shelves for all the things (phones/snacks/lip gloss/all the good things you need up there).

My only complaint about the centre stack layout is the positioning of the shifter dial right beside the similarly sized volume knob for the radio. I realize I am not living with these vehicles for long enough to form proper habits, but for the short time that I was with the Pacifica, I caught myself often reaching for the shifter knob to “turn down the volume” instead of where I should have been reaching. Throwing the vehicle into N or L while driving on the highway is not necessarily the end of the world, but it’s not ideal.

Motoring in a Minivan

We all know minivans aren’t about performance or oomph behind the wheel – no need to break the eggs or throw your newborn around too much in the back, after all. Despite that, the Chrysler Pacifica is enjoyable to drive, mainly thanks to it’s 260-horsepower V6. Coupled with Chrysler’s EVS (electronically variable-speed) automatic transmission, the power is smooth and more linear than you might expect from a V6 mill.

Coupled with a hybrid powertrain, the Chrysler Pacifica doesn’t just feel powerful for its girth and size, but it’s also efficient. During my week with it, I averaged 8.5L/100km with a combination of highway and city driving. And while the gas tank is large (just over 62L), it will last after the hefty bill to fill it with today’s current gas prices.  

I always find it interesting how high up the driver’s position feels in a van, despite the step-out being so very close to the ground when you get in or out. It’s one of the great mysteries of minivan engineering, and I love it.

Handling is what you’d expect from a van – not overly connected but surprisingly accurate when you need and want it to be. One of the nicest features on the Chrysler Pacifica is the AWD system that makes this people-mover a true seasonal multitasker.

Maverick of Minivans

If I was told I had to live with one minivan for the rest of my life, the Chrysler Pacifica would definitely top the list. Of course, it would be perpetually empty with lots of seat choices for Owen, but it would be endlessly comfortable, efficient on gas, and enjoyable to drive. 

2023 Alfa Romeo Giulia Estrema: Beauty before Brawn

Since making its return to North American just a decade ago, Alfa Romeo has tried to make a name for itself across the automotive market, with guarded success. Not for everyone, their lineup of vehicles is more about the style than the substance – at least in my oh-so humble opinion.

The allure of the Alfa badge is akin to some of the Germans, and truthfully it is a rarity to see on the road; but I wonder if that has more to do with the overall vehicle itself or perhaps the limited lineup.

It’s a Looker

If nothing else, the Alfa Romeo Giulia is a stunning vehicle. Alfa knows how to design a gorgeous vehicle inside and out, and the Giulia is just that: gorgeous. The lines are smooth and flowing, and that front nose is unique on the road and instantly recognizable.

And if you really want to stand out on the road in your Alfa Romeo Giulia, then the Estrema is for you. On top of a performance differences (which I’ll get to in a moment) the Estrema features a few aesthetic upgrades, as well. For starters, the flower-shaped 19” gloss-black rims make a stand-out impression on the road and work beautifully when paired with Alfa’s Rosso (red) paint colour. Sitting just behind those rims are black brake calipers (as opposed to the standard silver ones). And, of course, you get that fancy blacked-out “Estrema” lettering just above and behind each front wheel-well.

Other Estrema enhancements include carbon-fibre veneer on the V Scudetto front grille and mirror caps – for that extra racy feel. Carbon-fibre accents also appear in the interior, unique for the Estrema, along with red-stitched leather surfaces throughout.  

The cabin is otherwise well-appointed, though it seems sparce. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, however, I do feel the placement of buttons and knobs is just not intuitive. I constantly found myself searching for things, including the steering-wheel mounted start/stop engine button. Of course, this is something an owner would become accustomed to.

I found the cabin a tad small and tight at times. With a passenger beside me, we often knocked elbows and we both wished for more upfront space/storage spots.

In terms of infotainment, the Giulia Estrema is equipped with the standard 8.8” full-colour touch screen and features Apple CarPlay and Android Auto hookup. Thanks to the Stellantis family umbrella, the onboard system is one of the easier ones to navigate on the market with clear menus and easily accessed options.

Italian Racing Heritage

Of course, the history of Alfa Romeo is steeped in racing heritage and history and the Giulia Estrema is a nod to that – just as every Alfa in the lineup is, actually.

Did I find the Giulia overly sporty and racy? Not particularly, to be honest. Another special Estrema feature is the standard Quadrofoglio AWD system which is great for the colder months, but it makes the car feel heavy and weighed down when I would much rather it feel light and spry.

In terms of power and performance, the Giulia Estrema is equipped with a turbocharged 2.0L 4-cylinder mill that produces 280 horsepower and 306 lb-ft of torque. And while it feels peppy, I couldn’t help but feeling like I wanted more from it. It gives off this mischievous “I’m so fast you won’t believe it” look, and then somehow underperforms. Perhaps a third pedal would have made it feel more lively, but sadly the Alfa is only available as an automatic, although there are some ginormous paddle shifters fixed to the steering column, in true racing fashion.

The suspension is, you guessed it, sporty which means it feels stiff and uncomfortable at times. That makes for a more precise handling feeling behind the wheel, which is nice given how heavy it felt at times. The highly bolstered seats also make for a much more stable feel and ride for driver and passenger.

Beauty Above All

I honestly love the overall look and design of the Alfa Romeo Giulia – I have since it first arrived a decade ago. I understand the appeal and why they attract a certain buyer. The Alfa is a unique vehicle have in your driveway with a front fascia and logo not recognized by all. The interior is design-forward instead of practical, and again there are those who prefer that. With a starting price over the $50k mark, the Giulia is sitting pretty, even in base trim. And my limited edition Estrema? Well, that will set you back and extra $19k-ish over that base price. 

The Day I Broke

Exactly four months ago to the day today, I broke.

If you’re trying to work out the timeline and count back from now to when the world shut down in my part of the world (which would be that fateful Friday the 13th in March), you’ll realize my break has very little to do with the global pandemic and everything to do with me mentally, emotionally and very physically breaking.

It’s taken me these four months to put together properly how it all felt. Taken this time to actually accept the fact that I really did lose myself, that I really did disconnect, crumble, fracture.

Break.

How is it that I am able to pinpoint the day so precisely when the break happened? Well, that’s simple enough really.

I was hit by a car.

Writing it out makes me tremble a little. Brings it all back. And truthfully, anyone who knows me personally and has spoken to me over the months, has heard me candidly brush the statement aside with a smirk, “Oh yeah, I was hit by a car! But I’m still here!” I cheerfully admit.

But fuck.

I was hit by a car.

At the height of a pandemic, I bounced off the hood of an Audi and landed in the middle of the street, sitting on my ass wondering what the fuck just happened.

I didn’t realize then that I had broken more than just a bone, I’d effectively broken myself.

I’ve grown up a fiercely independent person. From the get-go, I’ve been a loner but in a good way. I love spending time on my own and if I can go about my business without ever having to ask someone to help, I am a very happy camper. I like doing my own chores, handling my own responsibilities and taking care of things on my own. I pride myself on being this way.

This hasn’t always served me well though, especially when it comes to relationships where it’s beneficial for both parties to ask for help and to allow the other to help when possible – it’s all part of being in a relationship, all part of being a couple, being a team.

I blame my only-child-syndrome on my lack of team-playing skills at times. But I think I’m getting better (the boyfriend might have another opinion on that though…)

Over the years my independence has been a good shield, too. I’ve hidden behind my strong singledom shell, all the while crumbling inside. My independence has helped me push away the worry, the guilt, the anxieties. It’s given me something to focus on other than what’s happening in my life.

In truth, my strong self-awareness and independence was what was getting me through the pandemic.

Furloughed and trying to homeschool my 8-year-old, I embraced my ability to be solo and”handle it on my own.” While my boyfriend plugged away working 16-18 hour days at home, I took it upon myself to ensure our house didn’t go to shit and that Owen was properly educated and entertained, while also ensuring I took care of myself (the 2-week hair-dye out of boredom, daily runs or at-home workouts, and taking time to read). I was happy keeping my boys happy, and doing it on my own terms and on my schedule.

And then it all came to a screeching halt, quite literally.

In an instant, my independence was stripped from me. Violently stripped away, and I didn’t even realize it at first.

I didn’t cry when it happened. I didn’t even cry out in pain. In fact, I laughed. Sitting on my ass, in the middle of the street, I laughed. It might have been the shock, but really I just couldn’t believe what had just happened, and then I tried to get up.

My right knee completely buckled in towards my left as soon as I put weight on it.

Well that’s not fucking good, I thought. But I didn’t sit back down or search for someone’s support, I just stood up straight on my good leg, and started to contemplate how I was going to manage to get to the curb, by myself. Obviously.

I think the gravity of it all hit me the moment I was sitting alone in the surgery waiting area, in the cold fucking hospital gown, staring at a clock on the wall, waiting for my turn to be rolled into a surgery room, quietly crying and trying not to freak out.

My tibia fractured on my right leg, just below my patella (knee cap). It compressed and essentially flowered out. That’s the side I was hit on, the side that made contact with the bumper/hood. I needed a plate and some screws to hold it in place. I wouldn’t be allowed to put any weight on it for 6-8 weeks. If I was lucky, and all went well.

I was terrified.

In those moments laying there in the hospital bed, unable to be comforted by anyone due to COVID restrictions, I was reeling.

I got hit by a car.

While I was out doing the one thing that brought me the most independence. The thing that got me through so much emotional turmoil over the years. So many life crises, so many ups and downs. The one thing that was fiercely and independently mine. The one thing that made me feel so accomplished and proved to me over the years just how strong and capable I actually was. The one thing that kept me going when I didn’t think there was anything left to keep me going.

I was running.

Something I realized – as I sat in that hospital bed – I might never be able to do again.

Fuck.

I was hit by a car.

I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but COVID ensured I was awake for the entire hour-long procedure (the hospital couldn’t risk a ventilator on me, so I had to stay awake with really good drugs to help relax me and hopefully make me sleep), heard the drilling and the hammering, and felt the manipulation.

I think about it now, and the physical pain I felt that first night was more than just my body reacting to being cut open and manipulated. It finally dawned on me just how broken I truly was.

I broke a bone, but I also broke what made me, me.

Learning to move around on crutches and with a leg brace on 99% of the time (unless I was showering) was fucking torture.

Sure, I could hobble to the kitchen and make a coffee, but then how was I supposed to carry it to the couch? Fix myself something to eat? Yeah OK, but try carrying the plate. Bedtime cuddles with Owen? There was no way I could comfortably get into bed with him and get back out. Ride in the front seat of the car? Nope. Walk up and down stairs easily? Ha! Drive a car?! Um, no.

I lost it all in a moment. A moment of stupidity on both mine and the driver’s part.

Taking care of me couldn’t have been an easy thing. I say I’m stubborn, but I’m sure it would be described more as pig-headedness. No matter what, I was determined to remain independent. To not ask for help. To do those everyday tasks even if it killed me or caused me immense pain in the process.

My poor, patient other half. His world shattered as nearly as mine did the day I was hit. Just a few days prior to that, he’d lost the solo job our household had. We were both unemployed. The pandemic was at its peak, and we had no idea what the future might hold.

Then I decided to go for a run that fateful Sunday morning.

I refused to take the painkillers – and truthfully didn’t need them after that first night in the hospital. There was a huge amount of discomfort and I swear I could feel my bone trying to restructure and grow around the plate and screws, but it wasn’t enough to make me want to drug myself up to numb it away.

The task of caring for me (which included daily injections in my stomach to prevent blood clots for the 28 days following my surgery), taking care of the condo, cooking, cleaning, going out into the pandemic world to get food and supplies, all while staying moderately optimistic and cheery to prevent the 8-year-old from panicking too much fell on my boyfriend’s shoulders.

It’s a good thing he’s barrel-chested and has a strong disposition, and an even stronger heart. Without him, I never would have pulled through the way I did.

I lost my independence but I gained a newfound perspective for a person I knew I already loved dearly. I don’t think I will ever be able to thank him properly for what he did for me, and Owen, the months I was healing and immobile.

When I came out of surgery and was in the recovery room, shivering uncontrollably with about three heated blankets on me, the orthopaedic surgeon came to tell me it had been a real success, in his opinion.

He also felt that I likely would never run as far or as fast again (he knew my history and knew I was an avid runner and gym-goer), but he was confident I would heal well and at least be walking in the prescribed 6-8 weeks.

That length of time weighed heavily on me. Like a huge fucking boulder on my psyche, on my soul.

My surgery was on May 21, four days after I was hit.

I gave myself a goal that very moment; I wanted to walk and drive again by the end of July. Two months. Eight weeks.

Fuck being broken.

By July 2nd, I was able to bend my knee more than 90-degrees. I no longer needed the leg brace. I began the process of learning to walk again. By July 7th, I was walking without any crutches (albeit gingerly and slowly, with a limp). On July 18th, I drove for the first time in months, and two days later I was back at the gym walking on the treadmill and using the rower, doing squats and regaining the strength I’d lost.

Rebuilding my broken.

The entire healing process was about so much more than my tibia healing. It was about so much more than a broken bone. It was about healing a broken soul. Healing a broken way of life. Healing a broken me.

It’s four months exactly to the day that I was hit. And as I write this, I am even coming up on exactly when the accident happened (around 11am), and perhaps by the time I finish this and post it, it will go up at precisely the time of the collision. And maybe that’s as symbolic as finally being able to put all of this into words after all these months.

I didn’t just break a bone four months ago, I broke a piece of me, and it’s taken all this time to rebuild it. But it’s finally healed, in more ways than one.

Your Heart is F*cked Up

I mean, after a few months with no word, did you expect anything less?

Nah, didn’t think so.

So, here’s the thing; over the past few months of crazy change and growth and new things and updated routines and all that fun stuff I’ve realized one constant: My heart is a fucking asshole.

The one thing it’s not allowed to follow; the one it’s not allowed to pine for or go towards; the “wrong” one; the one that will hurt the most; the one that is the absolute worst: That is the one it pulls towards.

Fuck.

Growing up, I think my heat (and brain) went to the easy targets; the guaranteed dates and dance partners and lack-of-solitude partners. Both gravitated towards the logical answer, the one that made sense and worked and was the best-case-scenario.I mean, really, who wants to be alone in high school? For Valentine’s Day? For a dance? Sitting on the school bus? It’s not that I settled, just that I realized I may as well since I totally enjoyed the company, so why the hell not? Might not have been perfect, but it was something, right?!

I long for those simplistic high school days.

Every day I open my eyes, I wish to have more control of my heart. I’ve mastered my brain. I have that down pat. But my heart? Shit, that fucker is a whole other department. There are moments I actually physically stop and feel like my brain (and body) are actually questioning my heart asking it WTF is actually happening and going on?!

And yet it always wins.

But why?

My heart is wrong ALL THE TIME.

I’ve been hurt by my heart more times than I care to mention. My brain is usually screaming, fucking belting out STOP. WHY ARE WE DOING THIS. YOU KNOW BETTER. And yet my heart (and soul) keep on keepin’ on.

So why the fuck do I (do we, because I know for sure I am NOT the only one who does this) keep listening to it? Does the heart have merit? Does it count somewhere? I let it continue to lead me, hoping one day it will end in happiness not heartache, and yet so far the odds are stacked severely against me in favour of my two-timing, lying heart that promises me so many wonderful things.

I have a theory: The heart is acting on instinct. Pure physiological attraction. Nothing else matters to the heart save for pheromones, chemical connections and cerebral stimulation. Current life situations don’t matter.

When a true connection is made, it’s a natural thing. We are, after all, animals. We have basic instincts and connections we cannot control. When those base connections are made, nothing else matters. We can’t control them. And I admit, I’ve felt this such a limited number of times, I have trouble explaining it, but I’ll try.

Let’s start with the animalistic side, shall we? Sexual attraction is know to all. It’s the most basic of attractions. It happens. And usually it happens for one night. This is a scenario I know well. I don’t always like to admit it, but it’s an easy fix. And it is totally natural… there will be nothing between us the next morning. And I get that.

What happens when it stretches past that sexual encounter? That’s where the lines start to blur. And they do blur… my God do they blur.

It’s all consuming. It takes over your thoughts and your (what you thought were rational) emotions. You’ll do anything and everything to feel the way you do when you’re with that person, if only for a brief moment. Being with them makes you feel whole, allows you to be yourself — and they fully accept the real you, without judgement. In those moments happiness is achieved, real laughter emerges, your true self comes out, you can be you and you don’t think about anything else but the two of you. At least that’s what your heart and soul and fucking emotions (I hate them) tell you…

The problem is, we often find that soul connection, that heart-perfect person, at the wrong time.

Ahhh, yes. That’s the issue.

So, what if your heart … your soul … connects on some level, but the rest of your existence, your life, doesn’t line up? What then?

Having done the whole affair thing myself, I know all about this hazardous, less-than-ideal situation … and yet…

Torn between giving my soul and heart what it needs verses understanding life situations and how no matter how much either one might pine, it just isn’t going to happen. At a sort of crossroads between giving my inner self what it needs, while pushing my rational self into a garbage bin and telling her to shut the fuck up for a second … it’s a horrible and shitty situation to be in.

Like a middle finger to my emotions and soul.

My heart is fucked up. Like a modern-day reenactment of the Titanic on course for the biggest, most fucked up disaster ever — I’m still wrapping my brain around it all, and also not willing to put the cap on the vile of poison or steer the ship away from destruction.

I desperately want and need the connection my instinctual heart has made. Nature isn’t wrong…

I know the outcome: heartache and icebergs.

I just want the violins to play us out as long as they can, while the ship sinks further and further.

Giving up for 2018

 

I’ve been silent for a while. A long while actually. It was totally on purpose. My mother always used to say; if you’ve got nothing nice to say, best not say anything at all. Well, since last fall my general consensus for life has been: FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Whether it was work, my health, my finances, my love life (and ineherent lack thereof), my child, my social life or even something as simple as clearing out the sink and keeping the kitchen clean, everything seems to have resulted in a string of explitives and huge sighs and me throwing my hands up in the air in complete and utter defeat. The end of 2017 just bulldozed me right the fuck over and left me gasping for air at the end of the year.

We live in an age of digital historianism. Everything we do and everywher we go can be easily traced and documented. I’m a prime offender of documenting any and all things that happen in life. Where I travel, what I drive, what adventure Owen and I are getting up to, and how my brain is working (or not) at any given moment thanks to a well-placed quote or saying here and there. My workouts are tracked, my flights around the world documented, and my coffee intake monitored. It’s all there.

As I looked back on 2017 in its digital form, I couldn’t help but smile (at least a little). Every picture, each post, holds more for me than just the sum of the snapped pic and the witty caption and hashtags that go along with it. Looking at any given post, I remember entire days; where I was (before and after the snap), who I was with, what was said, what was done, what was experienced (good and bad). I know when I had lulls in posts for days at a time that my head space wasn’t right, knew I was dealing with something or someone.

It’s more than hundreds of photos over several long months; it’s a journey. And one I struggled with, every step of the way.

Some photos bring back amazing moments. Moments I’ll hold on to forever. Moments only I will ever know about, despite the public post made just moments before or after. Moments meant for me. Moments shared, but perhaps only reflected on by me. Exciting moments. Terrifying moments. Life-altering moments. Some remind me of important life lessons, mistakes, missteps and harsh realities I could have probably prevented and stopped but rushed headlong into (as I usually do).

Truthfully, I did some pretty incredible things in 2017: I ran another half marathon (bareyly survived, but that’s another story), I played in red sand dunes in Land Rovers, I dipped my toes in the Pacfic Ocean, I drove a real race car, I brought my only child to his first day of school, I helped a foster cat grow past her fear of humans and get adopted to a loving family, I met amazing new people by absolute fluke and had some incredible too-late nights I’ll never forget, I ate oysters at home for the first time (shucked ’em and everything), I took a 14-hour road trip in a convertible, I changed my hair colour multiple times (and loved it every single time), I lived. Lived large – as they say – despite the life fuckery behind all the incredibleness.

Spotify also created a “Top Songs of 2017” playlist for me, and I listened to it often throughout the month of December. It was composed of the top 100 songs I listened to throughout the year.

It’s amazing what music can do the mind, just like smell. It can immediately transport you, whether you want to go “back” there or not, it does it until you frantically hit the “next” button or lower the volume to stop the tears from welling or the lump from catching in your throat.

Music is my solace, music is my escape, music is my happy place (second only to reading). Music got me through 2017. Music kept me level and music kept me sane. It made me smile, it made me cry, and it made me open up. I discovered an entirely knew genre I didn’t think I’d ever really like … And in discovering new music, discovered something new about myself, too.

Singing is big in our household. Owen and I do it all the time in the car and at home. We regularly have dance parties in the living room, and he’s a pro at learning the words to any and all songs. He’s also a pro at picking out new songs we’ll both love and listen to often. My little music guru.

And so, after all this reflection and looking back on everything; what’s it all really done for me besides drag up old emotions, thoughts and feelings?

It’s made me want to give up.

I feel like all I really did in 2017 was chase. I chased my finances. I chased a weight-loss my brain wasn’t ready to let my body achieve. I chased being a perfect parent to a newly-started-school little boy. I chased friendships. I chased being the ideal daughter. I chased being calm, cool and collected (insted of high-strung and anxious). I chased wine with gin. I chased finding a partner despite stating how “happy” I was alone. I chased men I thought could give me what I needed, but who were no good for me. I chased affection. I chased happiness. I chased piles and piles of laundry and endless dishes. I chased keeping my child occupied and happy at all times when we were together. I chased being the perfect single mother.

So I’m done.

No more chasing. No more running after bullshit. No more trying to reach unattainable goals. Fuck it. I’m out. I give up.

But I’m not giving in. There’s the difference.

One of my all-time favourite books is “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed. The most poignant line (for me) in that book is simply, “How wild it was to let it be.”

I wrote it in chalk on a board in my kitchen a few years back, and it’s since been covered by countless bits of paper and pictures and is half rubbed off. The other night, I shoved all the bits covering it aside and read it, out loud, over and over again. It made me breathe heavy, hyperventilate a bit, and definitely made me cry.

How wild it was to let it be.

So, 2018 is about giving up. Giving it all up. The self-loathing, the poor decisions, the lack of confidence, the need for perfection, and the struggle to get it all done and get it all done NOW. Letting it be. Not admitting defeat. Not giving in. Just letting things run their course… and run to me. No more gasping for air, trying to keep my head above choppy water with frantic strokes and poorly timed kicks. Time to take a breather, tread water gently and just let things settle and drift naturally.

This year, I choose happiness. I’m not entirely sure what that means right now. I’ll discover it as I go along.

Someone once told me that it wasn’t my brokenness that was the attraction, but more the way I handled it, didn’t use it as a crutch, and didn’t let it fuck with me. For some reason, that’s stuck with me. There are days I feel more broken than ever before, and days I feel no amount of time or reflection will fix it. And I’m OK with it. I have accepted all of my broken, and will likely continue to break more.

Here’s to 2018, to giving up and letting it all just be.

Firsts

I feel like it’s already way past midnight, but it’s really not. Maybe it has to do with my sheets STILL being in the dyer (again) thanks to another cat vomit incident (FML). Or maybe, it’s just how very dark it feels now that summer is coming to a close (FMLx2). Or maybe it’s just that I’m so God damn drained of everything.

I realized something today: We spend our lives obsessed with and craving firsts.

First step. First word. First love. First kiss. First fuck. First car. First day of school. First job. First child. First husband. Wait, what?

You get my point.

We crave these milestones. We strive to achieve them and we put so. much. weight. on them. It’s almost insane, and yet, here we all are.

Today was my son’s “first” day of kindergarten. Except, it wasn’t. He was only there for an hour. My ex and I were there with him. We sat in the gym with the Principal and he went off on his merry way to his new classroom, and only with half his classmates, as the first half had already been through the same process earlier in the day (divide and conquer is always the best way, right)?

So, tomorrow Owen will have a half day of kindergarten, then another half day on Friday. Then it’s along weekend as it’s Labour Day. And so, in fact, his real FIRST DAY of school isn’t until next Tuesday.

As we waited for the right time to walk Owen over to school this morning, the ex asked me if I was planning on going back tomorrow to send him off for school again since we weren’t entirely sure today counted as a “first” day…

Does that scared, quick brush of the lips when you’re 10-11 years old count as the first kiss?

Does your parent’s car that you borrowed every weekend for about a year before you could afford your own car count as your “first” car?

Does that bf/gf you had in 5th grade who held you hand once a week and sat with you at lunch but never talked to you and kinda didn’t even really like you count as your first relationship?

As I watched Owen skip down the street in his too-big-backpack and light-up sneakers I couldn’t help but feel a little disjointed about the whole schedule and procedure today. And as we got to the school and were greeted by staff and a basket of Kleenex “just in case” I still didn’t feel the emotions I felt I should. I mean, he was down the hall, and gone for an hour only. Technically, this morning was the first time I’d seen my child in almost 6 days since it’s not my time with him. For me, that’s a helluva lot more tragic than him going to have fun with other kids and a knowledgeable teacher for an hour.

But then, maybe I’m just insensitive?

A few mothers and children were teary and clingy and when I looked at the mothers so upset that made me well up, but I wasn’t crying for the “loss” of my baby boy, I was more upset at the hurt they were currently feeling that their children were taking such a milestone step.

The academic “first” is perhaps one of my favourite (yes, one of…) ones. I am so excited to see how Owen progresses; I can’t wait to explore his strengths and weaknesses. See what he’s good at, what he struggles with. What he loves and what he hates. I’m so, so curious.

As parents we project SO much on our poor unsuspecting children. So much. From emotions to odd sayings to strange food aversions (and likes) to career choices, and we definitely aren’t aware of half the shit we throw on them on a daily basis, of this I’m sure.

Just because mum is into writing and cars and dad weight lifts and is technologically savvy doesn’t mean he’ll do any of the above or even care for it as he evolves and grows  into his own little human being.

And I find this fascinating.

Why would I cry about the possibilities and the potential?

I’ll tell you what I want to cry about: The lunch planning and homework and much, much earlier mornings, and the evening traffic, and the parent/teacher nights and parent committee meetings I’ll inevitably have to attend in order to not be seen as “that” mom, and the increase in birthday parties and play dates (dear God let the other parents be decent human beings who like wine and don’t mind a swear word here and there).

All of that I will cry about, in fact, I’ve already cried about it … while I was labelling EVERYTHING Owen will ever bring onto school property, including every single Crayola marker and individual glue sticks and erasers and Kleenex boxes…. ALL. OF. IT.

Next Tuesday is going to be a helluva lot harder than today was, I think. Sure, Owen will be used to it by then, but next Tuesday is going to be the real deal. Mum’s gotta get outta bed to get us both out on time, we have to sit in real summer’s-over traffic, I have to remember to pack him a healthy, peanut-and-waste-free lunch, I have to actually REMEMBER TO TAKE IT OUT OF THE FRIDGE, once Owen’s been successfully dropped off I then have to get my current press car back and pick up my next one, then get to work and function all day, leave early, sit in more traffic and make sure I don’t leave him in day care for too long since it will, after all, be his first full day and I wouldn’t want him to be too exhausted.

And after all that and dinner, I’m supposed to want to workout in the evening. And I likely will. But I’ll tell you what I’m sure to also do after the workout and after Owen’s had a bath and gone to sleep. I’ll cry. With a big glass of wine.

Because that will be the FIRST day of the next 6 years he’s going to attend this school. That will be as much my first day as it will be his, and that’s kind of a big deal.

Firsts are a big deal, when they’re actual firsts. When they carry weight and meaning and are about change and growing as a person and an individual. Do I feel like Owen’s “first” day helped him progress as a now-student? Not particularly. It was more of a tease, like that first kiss that’s just a grazing of the lips because both were too scared to lean in too far and panicked then pulled back.

And as focused as we are on firsts, what about the follow-ups? The second children, and the relationships after failed marriages, and the subsequent years of school that follow the first day EVER? Do they not carry as much weight?

I think they carry more. We go into the follow-ups knowing more, having experienced more, being braver, more stable (hopefully), better prepared to know what’s coming. Our firsts are there to prepare us for the second time around. And if not prepare us then at least let us know what NOT to do.

My hope is that in this first year of schooling both Owen and I can learn from the mistakes we’ll make (because we surely will) and go into the years that follow stronger and better as a team and as student/parent. Sure, this “first” was exciting, but my God what the future holds excites me so much more.

I hope you meet a nice guy…

Sometimes I wonder what’s “wrong” with me. And I write wrong in those bunny ears to make myself feel a little bit better and less harsh about saying that something might be fundamentally wrong with me on some level, just so we’re all clear here. But I do wonder…

Maybe wrong is a harsh word. What’s different? What’s broken? What’s difficult? What’s unusual? What’s a struggle? What’s a challenge? What’s unlike the others? What keeps me alone 95% of the time? What’s the problem here?

Am I supposed to have these answers? Is someone else supposed to have these answers?

But wait, why is being on my own really a problem? Let’s take a few steps back for a second. I’m content in my solitude. And before you scoff and don’t believe me, hear this: Being single is amazeballs. I do what I want, when I want (when my son’s not here for my week ruling my life and my heart, of course). I can go where I want without asking permission. I eat Triscuit and hummus for dinner more often than I should, and sometimes dinner is just a glass (or 2) of wine. I can move furniture around without asking anyone’s opinion. If I want to watch the same movie or TV show for the 26th time in a row, I can.

No one is going to judge me. No one is going to argue. No one is going to care or make a fuss or try and change my mind. Trust me, the cats rarely put up a fight unless comfy blankets and/or food are involved.

I think about the idea of living with someone again now, and it’s been so many years since I shared a residence with anyone (and my now 5 year old doesn’t count) that it kind of makes me panic to think about sharing a space with another adult again. I don’t know that I could. I have my routines, I have my quirks, I have my ways… would I be able to share that again?

Recently, someone told me that they hoped I’d meet a nice guy. And while I laughed and brushed it off, they weren’t the first to wish such a thing upon me.

A nice guy.

What constitutes a “nice guy”? Do the same rules apply to the nice guy as the broken girl (also something I’ve been referred to multiple times)? Do we have specific qualities that might bring us together (seems to be the case most of the time)? How will I know he’s nice? Will he wear a sign? Why has said “nice guy” not appeared yet, despite me interacting with men who managed not to murder or maim me up to this point?

I’ve been told I push people away. Nice people. OK, not people; men, nice men. I was also recently told that it seems I seek out situations that will never work, because it’s easier. How could a dysfunctional situation be easier? Well, it’s a way to get out of things without too much trouble, without investment and the possibility of being deeply hurt emotionally. Date the guy who’s going to move back to his own country away from you or the one with the complicated situation or the one who’s aloof and never talks about his life or past and never asks you any questions. But the guy who’s solid and grounded and oh-so caring and sweet, who asks lots of questions and wants to get to know the real you… push him away. You don’t want him.

And I do push away. I do all that. And I hate myself a little bit for it.

So, perhaps this is more of a PSA to stop wishing a nice guy finds me, because the nice guy is only going to get hurt in the end, and we all know the nice guy doesn’t deserve that. Let me suffer in all this on my own. Let me push away the bad ones because they’re no good for me anyways.

Right?

That makes me feel like I’ve found the “wrong” in me. Seeking out the impossible. Not even what I think I can fix and make better, just what I know is outright impossible and wrong and going with that.

Like, how can I make my life super complicated and difficult? Fuck, yes, let’s do THAT.

But isn’t difficult slightly more enticing and interesting? Forget the whole bad boy thing; I don’t want someone who’s an asshole to women and a dick to his friends, who doesn’t respect his mother or hates animals and robs banks on the weekend. No, I’m not talking about that. I just mean that nice can equal boring.

Fuck, no. I don’t want boring. Please dear God, anything but boring at this stage.

I’ve experienced boring. First dates (even 4th or 5th coffee or lunch or dinner meetings) of useless conversation that had me thinking about work to-do lists and laundry I had to finish or really anything besides what he was droning on about instead of focusing on the words coming out of his sweet, nice mouth.

How can I be so harsh and dismissive? Why am I rejecting someone “nice”? Is that what’s wrong with me?

And then I’ve had conversations with “not nice” guys who are self-deprecating, confident in their insecurities and shortcomings, who include profanity and openness and bring out real, deep belly laughs that I’ve not experienced in ages, where topics range from parenthood to cooking techniques to politics to books recently read or goddamn crossword puzzles, really anything goes… but he’s not a nice guy.

So, what’s really the hope here? I see the slight pity in peoples eyes when they ask me how things are and if I’m seeing anyone and I say things are good but, no, I’m not. And there’s a moment of sadness that flickers across their faces. In those brief moments I kind of want to throat punch whoever it is that’s asked me. Why does my partnering with anyone have to hold so much weight on my happiness, first of all? And second of all, why does everyone so desperately want to push a boring “nice guy” on me?

The irony of the last time the “nice guy” statement was uttered to me was not lost on me. Not a bit.

I’ve reached a point in my life where I realize I have no answers, none at all. I’m fumbling around trying to figure out what keeps me sane, what keeps me smiling, what keeps me feeling whole, and what keeps me going. I focus on those things, even if they don’t seem to be the smartest, best decisions in the long-term. In the moment, they are what matters and I go with it.

I’m also aware of what I don’t want or need or desire. I’m OK with saying no and walking away from things that aren’t good for me.

Or am I?

Apparently, I should be walking towards the “nice guy” and making a happy, calculated, nice future, but instead I can’t stop walking in the opposite direction towards …

Scared to be lonely?

Sarah’s coming out from under the bed every single day now. She meows loudly to announce her emergence, then slowly pokes her head, then paws then entire body out. Tail in the air she’ll saunter over to me (or anyone else who happens to be standing beside me). However, the moment you reach down to pet her, she skitters away and will sometimes run back under the bed entirely, gone for the rest of the day/night.

She’s made such huge progress in the past weeks, it makes my heart swell, and has even brought a tear to my eye when she gets really into it and head butts and purrs up a storm. But it also makes me wonder if Sarah’s really learning to trust me and wants to be near me or is it just that she’s tired of being lonely?

I’ve come to realize that, besides my parents (who just celebrated 25 highly dysfunctional but also kinda fucking amazing years of marriage together), no one around me is in a relationship they REALLY want to be in. Everyone is so goddamn unhappy on some level, somehow. And yet, they stay together.

Why?

Hang on. I know this answer. I know I do.

Going on my fourth year out of a marriage, and without any significant portion spent in a “normal” relationship with someone who was in the same country as me, when it comes to thinking about being in a committed, see-the-same-person-every-day-in-the-morning-and-at-night relationship freaks me out ever so slightly, only because I believe (finally) I’ve become rather independent and quite happy to be on my own and spend time with ME.

That aside, I still remember what it’s like to be in that committed, one-person scenario. Still have small memories of what it meant to compromise on decisions and put myself second (or 20th as the case often was with me, and 100% of my own doing), how it felt to plan for evenings out together (tedious as fuck), and weekends away, decorating together and sharing daily trials and tribulations over dinner.

And I also vividly remember that when (on some deep level) I knew I was done with it, I still couldn’t and didn’t walk away.

Kids and living arrangements and circumstance are great excuses to stay with someone and in a situation you don’t really want to be in. Shit, that was definitely at least one of the reasons why we stayed together as long as we did. And how often do you question a spouse on why they stay with their significant other when they clearly loathe them; and as they bounce the sleeping child on their lap or play with the puppy at their feet they just bought together or twirl the car keys for the brand new model they just bought, they respond, “We can’t just split up, we have too much together.”

Well, I’ve come to the conclusion it’s more than that.

People are scared to be alone. Petrified of being on their own. Just like Sarah. She doesn’t “love” me in the traditional sense, she just gets so excited when I come back from work or from being away from the condo for a few days because she’s no longer alone. That fear of being the ONLY ONE: It’s fucking terrifying.

I know.

As contented as I am on my own without obligation to anyone (besides my son who owns me entirely, and my God does he know it), I’m also ridiculously fucking petrified that I will be alone. For a long, long time.

I’ve asked friends in troubled relationships why they just don’t leave and make themselves so much happier. Why torture themselves if they are so unhappy every day they step through the door and spot the person they should love, but don’t? And they usually respond with something along the lines of, “Oh, I know it’s not all bad” or “But deep down I know she loves me” or even “I’ve never been with a man who was as committed to me before.”

But is all that worth losing your own personal happiness over?

In my oh-so-single brain, it’s deifnitely not. Not one bit.

No relationship is perfect. I know this, trust me. I do know. But, I’ve also started using the pros/cons scenarios with friends in troubled relationship spots. As in, do the pros outweigh the cons? Do the number of times he’s made you laugh and smile outnumber the times he’s made you cry and scream in anger?

Because if the good doesn’t outweigh the bad, there is no fucking reason to stay. Not for one more second.

Life is short, so short. We all have a limited amount of time on this Earth, some much more limited than others, and we never really know what that time limit is until it’s too late, right? So why waste it? Because society says you have to try? Because your mother will be disappointed? Because you think it’ll be too hard and they’ll cry too much when you tell them they no longer make you happy? Because you just bought a house and it would suck to look for an apartment again? Because you kinda really like NetFlix, but the account is under their name and you’ll miss it too much when they’re gone?

Or is it because you’re scared to be alone?

I am. I’ll openly admit that.

But here I am.

I’ve managed to survive, thrive even. And in all my “loneliness,” I’ve learned that no matter what, I will no longer stay in a situation (partner, friend, work, line at the grocery store…) that doesn’t benefit my happiness, and in a big way.

I don’t mean a smile once a week and looking forward to once a month date nights, oh no, it’s got to be so much more than that. I mean a snort-inducing laugh in every conversation, a grin on my face every time I see his (even first thing in the morning when we both look like swamp monsters from the deep), excitment when doing run-of-the-mill shit like groceries and washing dishes, epic orgasms (for both) and a freedom to explore without judgement between the sheets, and an ability to be happy for one another when we lead our own lives outside a relationship we’re both thriving and evolving in.

Sounds like a bit of a pipe dream, doesn’t it?

At this point you all realize I am far from a relationship expert. In fact, I think I’d wager I’m more of a warning label for dating and relationships. Like a, “Look at her kids, this is what NOT to do if you want a long, healthy and happy relationship with a partner.” And I’m well aware and make no alusions to being anything else.

But in all my failures and shortcomings, I’ve learned a great deal about myself and human interactions as a whole. We’re all pretty fucked up and broken. ALL OF US. No one gets to be shiny and new and undamaged, it doesn’t happen. We all have history and baggage and bullshit that’s what makes us unique, what makes us attractive to the other sex (shockingly enough), but it’s also the reason we put ourselves in situations we aren’t really happy with because it also makes us afraid.

Afraid to share that damage and brokeness again; afraid it won’t be accepted; and afraid that it will all lead to the same conclusion: loneliness.

So, we stay. Stay where we don’t really want to be. Stay so that we can be “loved” in some fucked up way because the idea of being alone in a world that’s already so oddly isolating despite the gobs of communication and interaction tools available at our very fingertips is just too immensely terrifying to consider.

What’s Wrong with All of Us?

Truthfully, I don’t even know where to start with all of this … I feel like it’s all been said before, brought up before and discussed at length. But fuck it. I’m going to bring it up again.

When it comes to dating and interacting with other “adults” these days, there’s something seriously wrong with the majority of the public out there. Not physically wrong, but emotionally and mentally even.

Then it got me thinking: Am I the one in the wrong? Please, fuck, tell me I’m not the one in the wrong.

I’m in my mid-30s now.  By societal standards, I should be established enough in my life, myself and my career to be a contributing part of society and a decent human being. Well, somewhere along the way, recently-turned-30-year-olds lost the fucking memo.

Opening up to anyone is never an easy thing. Opening up to anyone today is a veritable minefield of fuck-ups and disasters. I’ve come to accept that we ALL have baggage and issues and scars that have molded us into the people we are today. Some hide all that, some use it to their advantage, and some cover it up entirely (not the wisest thing).

About two years ago, I wrote a post about dating in my 30s and how messed up it was. Well, not much as changed since then. It’s the same, if not worse. And I don’t think it’s just because of my age. I’ve heard of 19-yr-olds complaining of the same scenarios, and that makes me sad.

We’ve lost the ability to be authentic. We’ve lost the desire to divulge our deepest secrets. We’ve lost trust. We’ve lost understanding. We’ve lost devotion.

I hate meeting a new guy. I do. I hate the “getting to know you” phase. I hate explaining what I do for a living. I hate laughing in a fake and interested way (if I’m not, and truthfully, I’m generally not) and pretending to be engaged in his amusing stories about the gym that aren’t amusing at all. I hate the small talk.

Thanks to today’s technology, monogamy seems to have taken a back seat.  Sure, you can be “in a relationship” with someone, but ask to see their phone and see the panic in their eyes. Relationships can build and flourish via text, messenger, IG … virtual affairs are a real thing and I can’t help but consider that every time I meet someone new and I realize how much we each check our phones.

I hate it.

I also highly dislike the attempt at dirty talk that just has me rolling my eyes because he’s used the same line as the last 10 guys. Don’t tell me you wish I was getting into the shower with you when the topic comes up. Don’t tell me you want to know what I’m wearing. Don’t tell me you wish I was beside you in bed late at night. Tell me ANYTHING ELSE, literally. Quote fucking Poe or Frost or even Stephen King … ANYTHING ELSE.

Wait, that makes me sound bitchy and perhaps rather slutty.

But here’s the truth: I’ve not slept with anyone in months (yes, read that again, MONTHS), and I’ve been single for over 6 months. My 5-year-old son recently discovered my vibrator under a pillow on my bed and proceeded to bring it into the living room (turned on and vibrating) while I was sitting with a girlfriend claiming that he really liked it and could he play with it?

My life is a living meme … an oxymoron of what you think you have to do/ should do vs what really happens. I have no fucking clue what I want or need from anyone, if I’m honest.

Dating in today’s society is a bunch of bullshit. Nothing is genuine. Nothing is real. Everything is replaceable. I hate it. I loathe it. I don’t use apps. Tinder is bullshit and Bumble is just annoying and isn’t much better. Trying to meet someone in a bar leads to one thing only: Sex. Which, on some occasions, is fine.

Do I need a partner?

I’m not sure. The past 3 years would tell me that, no, I’m quite capable of being on my own. Do I WANT a partner? I wouldn’t mind it … but what will it take? It’s all too much for me. Too much iPhone and Bumble and social interactions and online vs offline … I feel old and tired and broken. I don’t trust and I don’t want to. It’s not worth the hurt, the heartache and the recovery. Better to stay single and “safe” than open up the delicate bits and have them shattered again.

Sarah is still living under my bed. I lay down on the ground every night and chat with her. Tell her about my day. Every morning she pokes her head out and we look at each other for a few moments. Late at night I catch her in the bathroom, sitting by the sink; I pee and she watches me warily till I go back to bed. I see her slow progression and it gives me hope that I can someday progress in this fucked up world of dating and interactions.