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This is not the typical date night recap.
You’ve been waiting for some time now.
And I appreciate those of you who continue to take this journey with me.
Your comments, emails, texts and calls asking, “how’s the love life?,” remain an encouragement to me.
However sporadic my posts may be, I am still loving and jumping (in one way or another), daily.
But this isn’t about how excited I was to actually have my first real love jump in a while.
I suppose if this was the usual recap, I could share the cute story about how I met this military man at the corner of 14th and U Street while waiting for the light to change.
How this gentleman with a southern drawl slow and lazy as the Mississippi, turned around and said “you have beautiful eyes,” before walking with me across the street.
But this is not a rehash of a fun night out. Its about what I learned on my last love jump.
The one with the guy who took my number down the old fashioned way: on a piece of paper.
The guy who texted before calling me to see if I was available to chat.
The one who called to invite me to a cocktail party hosted by the conference he was attending.
I suppose I could mention how I got ready in less than an hour, slipping on my color-blocked, black and blue dress in a hurry to make it to the bar on time.
I could go on and on about the cherry red lipstick I wore and the barely slicked back afro puff I just had to go with because I had no time for anything more.
How I politely declined when he invited me to come up to his room when I got to the hotel.
Instead, I sat at the bar and charged my Pama Fizz to Room 381.
If this were about a date, I would tell you about the dinner conversation so comfortable, I didn’t feel bad about sending my food back because my meal was pretty bland.
Instead, I would tell you how he did it for me.
“Excuse me miss, would it be okay if she ordered something else. She’s not pleased with this.”
But this is not a blog post about a date.
Instead, it’s about a somewhat tainted end to a good night.
About slow and steady kissing in the back seat of a taxi cab.
About the loud taxi cab driver yelling on the phone in another language and too distracted to see my date’s hand slide down my neck and up my dress, crossing and blurring lines that seemed fine in the moment–but not the next morning.
I would tell you all these things if I were recapping a typical love jump.
But this isn’t about a fun-loving love jump.
This is about imperfection. About my recent wrestlings with regret.
Regretting decisions I made or didn’t make for one reason or another, then pinning myself against a wall of guilt because of it.
This isn’t the first time an innocent date led to an intimate encounter with a guy I barely knew.
It’s not the first morning I woke up feeling meh and less attracted to the guy because I went too far.
Too far from where I wanted to be at the end of the night.
When I unpack these overwhelming feelings of regret, guilt and “shit, I screwed it up” type of thoughts, I realize it’s not about me wanting to do the “right thing” (what ever that is) or what I “should” do (whatever should is).
It’s about me wanting to have it all together. To have all my ducks lined up in a row.
It’s about me not wanting to share my falls from grace– from jump to jump– for fear of shame, guilt or judgement.
This cycle of— opportunity, choice, regret, guilt, forgiveness, repeat– is not the real problem.
It’s ego. That’s the problem.
It’s me wanting to be perfect, good at something, not mess things up and certainly not tell the world when I do.
This is not a blog post about a perfect date night out.
It’s about a great night out with a pretty imperfect person.