I dated a boy.

I dated a boy.

It’s been about a year and a half since I ended my last relationship and when I did, I was so emotionally exhausted, I struggled to find empathy or excitement for anyone, let alone another a new partner for months.

I wasn’t showing up as the friend I wanted to be. I wasn’t showing up for my dog in the way I wanted to be. I could barely make room for myself after 8 months of drowning in exhaustion.

My friend Amanda told me a few months ago that she thought dating could be fun and new for someone like her and me who are serial monogamists. A brand new experience full of growth and excitement but all I could think was “dating has never been fun, relationships have always been hurtful and traumatic.”

Long winded stories I tend to sum up with the simple sentence; it was not a good time.

The anxiety about relationships bubbles out of me like an over-shaken soda, leaving me jittery and flustered.

I wished, just once, I dated someone nice and sweet and it just didn’t work out because it didn’t, not because there was something wrong with one of us or some big dramatic hurt had been caused that sent me crawling back into therapy.

Just easy.

A moment of joy to look back on with nothing but appreciation instead of tears.

And this March, I got just that. I had two weeks of someone who picked me flowers by his home on the east coast and drove them to Durango because he thought I’d like them, the first romantic interest to have ever brought me flowers despite spending about a third of my life in committed relationships.

Someone who was sweet and kind and fun and easy to be with.

Someone who held me tight and ran his fingers through my hair and asked me questions about myself while Indy leaned against him for pets.

And then he moved to Oregon for his seasonal job, has he had been planning to since the day he arrived in Durango for his winter off season. It was a sweet, simple parting that left me giddy.

Simple, easy, joyful.

I get to look back with a smile.

Part of me wanted it to be more, part of him did too.

The piece of me that is so used to a first date lasting years of my life without a second thought. But this wasn’t that. This wasn’t full of future tripping or facades because there legitimately wasn’t time to do anything but show up as we are and enjoy each others company for the two weeks we were in the same place.

I’m still in therapy. I’m still processing and moving through the damage caused by my last two partners but those two weeks clicked something into place for me.

I can no longer say someone has never treated me well. That someone has never brought me flowers or taken me out to dinner.

Because for two weeks, I got exactly what I asked for and it was exactly what I needed.