Mom hasn't called, and this is a post-breakup debrief

Mr. Right wasn't right enough

Much like a fallen friend returning to Earth post-breakup, here I am publishing after a sweet eight months with an earnest man has come to a not quite bitter, not quite sweet end. 

Last we spoke, as shared in Byline, I was searching for Waldo—a dating approach that hinges on intentionality; a necessary quality for any thirty-something without the energy or time to date aimlessly. If in our 30s we realize how fleeting time is—just (what feels like) yesterday I was turning 30 in Paris; today I’m breezing through 31 in Los Feliz—this decade must also be about not exhausting that time on the wrong guy. That’s not to say time is only spent well on guys, but certainly better spent on anything else than the wrong guy. 

So last summer, inspired by a secondary plot-point on a Hulu-Kardashian episode, I wrote a list of highly specific qualities, attributes and feelings I’d have to see in a man to consider getting to know him well enough to date him. My (former) guy—who we’ll call Butcher Box—came weeks after I put those thirteen requirements on paper. His sudden appearance into my life, as if written by a rushed show-runner, taught me how just easily the universe can work for us when we’re intentional; and how literal its work will be, leaving no room for nuance and interpretation. Cupid is not an AI-trained chatbot, tragically. 

While Butcher Box met all of my criteria at the time, and even surprised me with characteristics I didn’t know I wanted—like being thoughtful enough to always park on the street when I visit, so I’d have a spot in his driveway upon arrival; or before I even had a car to park, accompanying me on a months-long search for the right MINI Cooper—over time, I started to find there were gaps in my perfect list.

In hindsight, I can see that list was based on what I learned from the relationships of my late-20s; helpful context for what should have been an attempt at a first draft of a new list for an evolved 30-something. I could-have-should-have followed that draft, interrogating what matters to me most today: Why do I want to be in a relationship now? Where does a relationship fit amongst my other priorities in life? How do I perceive love and care? How do I express love and care? And other important questions that, when answered, can help ensure compatibility with a partner-to-be. I underestimated just how much a person can grow in a few years’ time.

It’s very possible Butcher Box would’ve worked for me at 27, and perhaps he might again at some point in the future, but today, my baseline needs and seemingly irrational (to him) wants of 31 were not being met. Neither were his. As much as we grew to love each other this past year, it often felt like we were speaking different languages, while being unwilling to learn the language of our partner.

That’s not as obvious a reason to break up as infidelity or disgust. It took some time for me to accept what wasn’t working and work up the nerve to verbalize those feelings to him on the same couch we shared many meals and moments together. I didn’t want to catch him off-guard. I didn’t want to look unappreciative. But most importantly, I didn’t want to continue investing in something I knew wasn’t fulfilling me.

When I decided to broach this subject with him, all I could think is, What I have with this man is the closest I’ve come to being with someone I can see myself getting old and wrinkly with—surely that’s worth fighting for; working through; settling on? Well, almost, if not for the constant disappointment I felt from not having my needs met, and not being able to meet his, despite my best efforts. That malignant misalignment was bringing premature wrinkles to my forehead. When I joked about needing botox at a dinner he organized, his friends advised against it. And in doing so, forced my hand. Grow wrinkly with him: sure. But do not grow wrinkly because of him.

After a four-day recess, we continued our conversation at a too-loud bar in Silverlake. In that time, I grew expectations and hope that he’d want to fight for us. I even scripted his plea to me for a second chance, but that man veered so far off-script we switched genres. What was meant to be a romance classic: me initiating a breakup conversation that’d 180 to loving recommitment to meet each other’s needs; ended as a thriller: him telling me he wants me in his life as a friend. 

Well, no. 

Before my disappointment could show, I kissed my would-be pal TTFN and walked home, unable to wait even three minutes for an Uber to pick me up, lest he see me cry. 

We’re going on a few weeks post-breakup. The tears have stopped. We’ve texted twice. I’ve spent time with Tinashe, Chlöe and Sabrina’s new projects, released for me to feel the full breadth of breakup emotion: anger, disappointment, sadness and, interestingly, most potently, relief. Like taking off an ill-fitting loafer you’ve been wearing too long. I’m looking at you, size 44 Dries. 

Butcher Box is not the wrong guy by traditional definition. Kindness, emotional intelligence and chivalry aren’t qualities we associate with the wrong guy archetype. His fault is that he came at the wrong time; or we were simply wrong for each other.

I want to say there are no hard feelings, but perhaps there’s one tender feeling. When I begin to resent him for occupying so much space during what I consider to be the best year of my life, I wonder if it was the best year because of him—and what then? What does that mean for the months and years to follow? I try to remind myself that partial credit exists for a reason. If this summer’s been a beautifully messy cherry pie, Butcher Box is surely a piece of it. So are weekly rallies with my tennis cult; so is my favorite slinky tank from Front General Store; so is my writing corner at Stereoscope; so is my reduced work travel schedule; so is living with my best friend; so is knowing I’ve grown enough to open my heart to this man in ways I’ve never been able to before—and what that means for the next (possibly right) one.

So is knowing, at 27, I would’ve settled for the size 44 shoe. But at 31, who can tolerate a pinched toe?