It’s like climbing a mountain.
You hike and hike and you reach a point and you look down and there’s the valley spread below you and you think, “Wow, I’m high.” And then you hike some more and you hike and hike and you reach a rocky lookout point and you look down and you go, “Whoa…. This is high.” And you look down on your first lookout and you smile to yourself and say, “And I thought that was high…” And then you look up the trail and wonder what the height is like up there, what the view will be, how the vista will spread and what it will feel like.
It’s like climbing a mountain, only the scenery isn’t as good.
I have reached the point where I can look back and my younger self and think, “Ha, I thought that was jaded?” Back then I was just sick of dating a guy once or twice with no progress. Now I feel revolted by the idea of going on another date. How do people sustain this kind of pace perpetually?
I don’t want to hear about one more perfect guy. I don’t want to hope one more time that this might be the one. I don’t want to dress up. I don’t want to wait neatly in my room for the doorbell. I don’t want to smile and be pleasant and go to another lounge and order another water and deal with another lemon. I don’t want to explain my field. I don’t want to describe my ideal future. I don’t want to answer more awkward standard dating questions while pretending that they’re not awkward and standard, that they’re normal things for total strangers meeting for the first time to ask each other. I don’t want a single other waitress to throw me a sympathetic smile ever again forever. I don’t want to listen to one more out-of-towner who professes to hate the tri-state area go on about how much he loves his tri-state area yeshiva which means that he’s going to want to spend the rest of his life in the tri-state area complaining about how much he hates it here. I don’t want to talk about my siblings or my job. I don’t want to spend an evening trying to figure out what to ask a learning guy about himself after he answers “nothing” or “basketball” to “what do you do for fun?” I don’t want to see another stranger’s GPS with my address in it. I don’t want to be at the mercy of another maniac’s driving. I don’t want to wonder if I should get out of the car right away or not when he pulls up in front of my house. I don’t want to feel his eyes on my back as I open the door to my house. And I don’t want to suddenly find myself very tired and very dressed and two flights down from my bed.
I don’t want to go out.
I don’t don’t don’t want to go out.
And I’m only 23. I wonder what new heights of jadedness await up there?