Missed Connections

I promise you my intentions are often good.

I know that she’s better than me, okay? No one has to tell me that. She’s stunning, with perfect skin, glowing and flushed on a Wednesday night, for some reason? Her hair cut is incomprehensibly even - a gorgeous healthy chop whereas my hair borders on the “polygamous cult wife” look.

Then there is her kind smile, and the way she gently leaned into me as she laughed at something that was, yes, slightly funny, but more so seemed to remind her of how joyful life can be, despite all she’s been through. I braced myself against the urge to laugh with her.

She met my boyfriend the same way I did. On a dating app. But they decided they’re better off as friends. Dream come true for someone with my attachment wounds! I also knew who she was before he was even a glint in my eye because I’m a fan of her art which is brilliant and helped me through a difficult time. But I’m not intimidated! I’m cool. I’m prepared. I’m bristled. Chilly. I’m raising my hackles and holding tight to my power as I sit across from her. I’m not gonna tell her what a fan I am. Are you kidding?

I can’t dare be effusive, for I know our fate. I KNOW that she, with her sparkly eyes that contain many dark and interesting stories that have only deepened her perspective and made her more charming, I know she will eventually express her true love for my boyfriend and I KNOW that even though he’s never given me any reason to question his commitment, he will have no choice but to reciprocate, given that she looks and smells and speaks and sees the world in the unique way that she does. I know that if not a definitive fate, this is a highly probable one and I therefore choose to defend myself against it. Against her. I smile coolly. I reapply my lip gloss. I don’t ask too many questions.

What did I stand to gain from being slightly unfriendly to an "innocent woman”? A woman whom I was actually deeply excited and honored to meet and I’m sure I could get along great with? Well… well………. It’s kind of seeming like the answer is… NOTHING, and I’m kind of feeling like… I lost out by not telling her how much her work has meant to me and how talented and cool I think she is.

My intentions were good, you know – I just wanted to protect my heart against possible harm. But the result was a loss, a miss, a moment of roughness where there could have been warmth. I missed a chance to connect. Like all those romantic people who write to Craigslist’s Missed Connection’s page, about the beautiful woman they saw in the coffee shop and fell in love with at first sight, but were too afraid to approach and…. oh, wait… never mind.

I suppose some connections are better left missed. Like Chelsea, my chosen champion from this most recent season of Netflix’s Love is Blind (season 6), and Trevor, a human sectional.

In the pods, when Trevor gave Chelsea a rock with the word “love” emblazoned on it and exclaimed that the rock says love and you can feel it so it’s like brail which is like blind which is like how Love is Blind, I thought…. this man is the stupidest sweetie on earth and Chelsea should choose HIM because they can have a happy simple life together celebrating Pumpkin Spice season and contemplating decorative rocks. But Chelsea chose Jimmy who is not a human sectional but rather a human toe and who has fraternity brothers and a stressful obsession with the way Kardashians look.

I felt sad for Chelsea that she had missed out on a connection with Trevor. I wanted her to go back and change her mind! Then, at the reunion, Trevor was confronted with the reality that he fully had a girlfriend when he went on the show, to whom he’s now engaged, and he was probably just doing the show for influencer money. Trevor’s only response to this confrontation with his sinister reality was to admit “I am toxic.” No further explanation.

This may not seem related, but I recently moved into a new apartment and was very excited to show my mother photos of it, and my parents met on Love is Blind. Just kidding. This story connects in a more subtle way.

My parents are… neurotic to say the least. They watch a lot of true crime documentaries. When I lived in LA, my mom visited me and almost immediately upon seeing my apartment, she ran to Home Depot to buy planks of wood and multiple “Adjustable Security Door Jammers”. Growing up, I was constantly reminded of how to hold a knife the safest possible way (not holding one at all), what to do in case of emergency, where to store cash for when the grid gets hacked, etc.

As I showed my mother photos of the home I’ve just spent months combing Streeteasy to find, the place I had decided would become not just my new home, but also my new beginning, my fresh start, the missing ingredient that could and surely would fix all of my problems, I was met with “What’s that next door? An Alley? What floor are you on? You know that AC unit could kill someone if it falls…” by the time she asked if someone could somehow break into my building by crossing over from the building next to it, I lost my shit. I shouted that I’m pretty sure no one in the building next door is JASON BOURNE and I therefore don’t expect someone to cascade through the sky into my bedroom window and then I launched into a triggered tantrum about wanting her to JUST be happy for me!

When I’d finished my rant, I was met with a confused, gaping stare. My mom appeared baffled. How was she so confused? What was I missing? She explained that she IS so deeply happy for me. How could I think otherwise? She just wants me to be safe. And I hadn’t thought of that….

I had allowed my perspective to be marred by my own projected insecurities that perhaps maybe this apartment WON’T solve all of my issues in life and that I may still have to do some inner work on myself. I didn’t pause to think that my mom’s concern could be coming from a place of love, care, and yes, a tinge of Reddit-fueled paranoia. I nearly missed yet another moment to receive love. Yet another connection. Luckily, I was able to apologize in the moment this time, and we talked about it and were vulnerable and heard and understood each other. And then we watched a four-part docuseries about a guy who was murdered in his hotel room.