I meant to keep you updated. I meant to tell you about the three lost months I spent in a long-distance relationship with a guy I saw a grand total of twice during that time. I meant to tell you about the weird time I very briefly dated a steroid-ridden weightlifter who was so very full of himself there was no room for me. But all those "meant-tos" and "should-haves" cease to have a place in my life. And I am so grateful for that. 

Here I often claim I am attempting to dodge the Willoughbys of this world, but the truth of the matter is that I often can't spot those characteristics until I am knee-deep and must escape with some force. That's the thing about Willoughbys, I suppose. 

But the good news is (and I am here to inform you of it) that there are good men in this world. There are Darcy, Knightley, and Wentworth types. They really do exist. 

My dear friends of the past four years, my time with you is now coming to an end. In true Austen-heroine fashion, I am ending the documentation of my dating life with a marriage. It still looks so strange on the page. I am getting married, I am getting married, I am getting married. How can this be real? 

Let me tell you, it was not what I was expecting; he was not what I was expecting. I cannot succinctly describe the past several months in any entertaining way. I cannot express my gratitude and my hope for the future. I do not know if I ought to cry or jump about in girlish giggles, so I actually just do both. 

He is the best person for me. He is so much of what I need in my life, and I fell in love first with his kindness. His kindness keeps me from freaking out (too much), and it keeps me from wanting to run away. I thought I knew what I wanted, I thought I wanted fireworks and healthy debates and sarcastic humor, British accents, and tweed jackets or something. But those things aren't for me. Not anymore. All I needed was someone to be kind to me, to look at me in that way, to treat me like I am their entire world, to be treated as though I am both more than and enough and perfectly able to become better. Encouraged, cherished, supported, loved.  

It is all so unlike a Jane Austen novel. It's better than a Jane Austen novel. Simply because it's real. 

Con amor for the last time, 

The Coquette/The Lady  

P.S. I cannot thank you all (and the other Anti-Austens) enough for the love and support over the years. Writing for this blog has been my joy and my honor. All the best to you, and all my love.  

For me, I struggle to settle down. For me, I struggle to find what I think love ought to be. For me, the first (and not even the second) love was not the right love.

I have a wise aunt who was not married until her early 30s, which in the 1970s I assume was much more of an anomaly than it is now. At a family reunion recently, we had a long conversation about my dating life, which I sorely needed. I told her all my woes and worries, and she was more than understanding. My Aunt Gardiner brushed aside all my fears about getting older and not getting any closer to finding a husband claiming that even though she wasn't married until she was "older" herself, she is "just as married as anybody else is." 

Then we had a long talk about quality men. My Aunt Gardiner told me that my Uncle Gardiner was not her ideal man. This shocked me as I had only seen extreme affection between my aunt and uncle, which has sometimes proven to be be slightly uncomfortable to witness as they are in their 60s. My Aunt Gardiner noted my somewhat panicked expression and clarified that although my Uncle Gardiner was not what she thought her ideal was, he turned out to be what she needed. Which in the long run is infinitely better. She made the analogy of loving steak, that steak was her meat of choice, but she was perfectly happy with hamburger. I am not terribly fond of meat analogies, but it was her analogy not mine, so I'll not tamper with it.

I do have an ideal. Some dark-haired, deep-voiced semi-giant of a man who can sweep me off my feet both physically and with his clever jokes and intimidating intelligence. But ideals are silly aren't they? When has anyone ever ended up with an ideal? When have plans ever fallen perfectly into place? 

But then again, has there ever been a time when what we have wanted has not been trumped by what we have needed? And shouldn't our needs be more important than our wants? 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

One of these seemingly normal guys approached me on my first Sunday to introduce himself. He was good looking, fit, had a full head of hair, was obviously older than 19. Not bad. Not bad at all. But then he introduced himself as "Tyger." Tyger with a "y" like the William Blake poem. Because he is an English teacher. You know because English teachers do that sort of thing. I am only slightly ashamed to admit that I audibly guffawed. 

I didn't last long at the singles' branch. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady 

The Counselor sent me a text one night near midnight to ask how I was doing. It has always been situations like this that make me go through the horrendous ordeal of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not. There is no half-heartedness with me. Before long our casual texting about the greatness of Ben Folds and how he needs to watch more episodes of Friends took a turn to why he and I would never work out. Not my favorite topic of conversation. 

Him: You and I are different. While we get along well, and I believe that any two people committed to each other and The Savior can make it work, I feel like we're constantly trying to change each other's minds. I feel like we get under each other's skin unnecessarily frequently. And not in the good kind of drive-me-crazy way either. 

Me: Then why did you drag this out? You didn't have to take me out, you didn't have to keep talking to me. I would have been okay, really. 

Him: But I wanted to. 

Me: But there was nothing to gain from it. 

Him: The truth is, I thoroughly enjoy you as a human, and I'm not one to write that off. In the long run, you're either friends, you date, or you pretend each other doesn't exist! And in [city where we went to grad school], how do you pretend someone doesn't exist? Especially someone who is an absolute breath of fresh air? 

I am sure you can imagine my inner dialogue during all of this. This mind-numbing discussion went on and on and on for another two hours, and even though The Counselor never said "I don't like you because you're too opinionated and argumentative," that is precisely what I took away from the conversation. C'mon, I'm a girl and I will interpret and conclude and over-analyze until the day I don't cry when watching Little Women (never). 

Sometimes when I am hurt by a boy/guy/man (intentionally or unintentionally) it sends out ripples to every other past failed relationship or non-relationship. This one particularly stung as it brought back memories of Dex telling me how infuriating I was because of how argumentative I can be and blaming our break up on my opinionated-ness. What's the matter with me? 

At the same time, it was maddening to feel like I was to blame again because I have strong opinions. Albeit sometimes strong opinions about trivial things. I feel as though I am supposed to be sweet and passive all the time. Is that how I am supposed to be?

Con Amor, 

The Lady 

Yes, in 2014 The Younger Man and I decided a relationship between us would be impossible. Long distance and all that jazz. We had a teary-eyed goodbye before Christmas break and he kissed me square on the mouth in front of The Counselor...I regret nothing. We meant to spend New Year's together, but an unforeseeable snow made that impossible. Weeks later however, The Younger Man and I had another romantic rendezvous, during which time he promised I would hear from him often. Given the fact that we were basically calling and texting daily, I had no doubt such a thing would in fact happen. 

The new semester began and then radio silence...

I was perturbed but not distraught, and for Valentine's Day I was determined not to spend the weekend alone with my parents, so I packed my bags and headed to the Big City to be with my friends/former roommates. Naturally, there was an institute activity to attend for all poor Young Single Adults who are efficiently labeled "single." My friends and I got all gussied up, and The Younger Man's sister mentioned that her brother would be there. "Oh really?" I asked nonchalantly as I smeared on a layer of red lipstick. 

The activity was as average as most YSA activities are, and The Younger Man and I flirted overtly. It was not until the activity was coming to a close that I noticed a little blonde thing hanging about The Younger Man and his sister. I had merely dismissed her as a random, shy friend until The Younger Man made it a point to introduce her to me and then left the activity with her on his arm. 

Snubbed. 

Let it be known that occasional make-outs and flirtatious texting with hormonal young men do not a strong relationship make. But you probably already knew that. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

I. Don't. Know. 

For a moment I was tempted to feel discouraged about my obvious lack of perspective about my own self. Did I really not know what sort of man I liked? But then it hit me: I like men. Plain and simple. I like men. I have liked every man I have dated. Obviously some more than others, but you get the picture. That's not to say that I cannot settle for one type and be happy with that type (at least I am hoping I can do that). All I am saying is that it feels nice to realize that I think I can be happy with almost any sort of man. Which brings me to the issue of falling in love with anyone. I read this article a couple weeks ago, and have been stewing over it ever since. The idea of it might be preposterous, but I also believe it to be preposterously logical. Read the questions. Can you imagine going on a date and asking someone how they felt about their relationship with their mother or if they had a hunch about how they were going to die and they were not weirded out and were in fact completely honest and open about it? If you could talk with someone about real things, not just majors and missions and hometowns, but life's real things. Sometimes you get to that point with someone where you can talk about those real things. Other times it's like pulling teeth. 

The thing is that it's hard to be vulnerable to another person. It's hard to open up to another human being and say, "I secretly want to be a famous author." Or, "I wish my family was closer than they currently are." It's hard to be real. It's hard to be real because we call it "the dating game." And we're told that we can't take games too seriously because they're just games. 

But it is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman must be in want of a husband. And that requires falling in love, not games. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady 

I suspect the town could sense a disturbance once I crossed the town line. People are just coming out of the woodwork to find me love, telling me they have single nephews or cousins or brothers or sons or coworkers they have been dying to set me up with. Some of these men have children, some of these men currently have girlfriends, some of these men I am fairly certain are gay. Nevertheless, according to oh-so-caring former Young Women's leaders, mothers of friends, and other women I don't know that well, all of those are mere hurdles. 

I am none too worried though. Most people are just full of hot air or wishful thinking or whatever that is. But have you ever had people try to set you up on dates simply because you and one other person they know are single?

The Lady

The greatest change that has come as of late is a change in location. Save for a necessary internship, I am finished with my masters degree. By some grand design, my internship has taken me to my rural hometown (yes, I am now living at home with my parents) where there are no eligible young men whatsoever. At least none that I have seen. Now that I have left a less bountiful city than Provo for an even more drought-ridden area, I am not certain this semester (or however long I am here) will provide any dating fodder, but I shall be present with any awkward (or perchance thrilling) stories that come my way. 

Now for my own amusement (and perhaps your own), allow me to review the highlights of my year and wrap up the loose ends which abound:

The Artist--Truth be told I nearly forgot about this particular short-lived confusion revolving around The Artist. I met him at that one-day EFY thing in January. I only was with him in person once, but he asked me to go to France with him and wanted to strike up a long-distance relationship. I discovered that he liked the idea of me more than he actually liked me, so I nipped that in the bud with good reason. The Artist is now happily engaged. Mazel tov. 

The Counselor--I met this unexpected man earlier this year in an institute class. His flirtations and non-flirtations with me have been agonizing. I wanted so badly to fall in love with The Counselor, but his lack of romantic advances have made it impossible. The Counselor quickly became one of my greatest friends and the saving grace of my semesters of grad school, and he admitted to feeling similarly about me, but he also let me leave without saying goodbye. I fear that what was once a great friendship and potential relationship has been obliterated. 

The Englishman--Through the means of Tinder, I accomplished a life goal and wooed a British man. But due to a lack of desire to commit to a long-distance relationship or give up any of my standards, a three month text and phone call based relationship came to a fiery end. 

The Southern Gentleman--A very short affair that was lovely and brought my "famine" to an end, but was also short-lived due to distance. Blast it all. 

The Younger Man--A spontaneous Halloween make-out led to a bit more than I bargained for. I admit to liking The Younger Man, quite a bit, but once again we settled the should-we-date debate on the complication of (you guessed it) long distance. It just can't be done I suppose, at least not for me. Although I am planning on spending New Year's Eve with The Younger Man...I wonder what sort of fireworks will occur.

Mr. Cowboy--Mr. Cowboy is bent on ruining my Christmases. And my life. Two years ago at Christmas, he appeared on my doorstep to wish my family and me the merriest. I hid in my bedroom. Like a coward. I am ashamed to admit that it happened again. After almost two years of avoiding him, he came round again. This time he was polite enough to send me a Facebook message asking me if a visit would be alright. I told him plainly that I couldn't stop him from being friends with my family, but a visit with him and his wife was not something I would be able to bear with comfort. Somehow the cad took that to mean that he should come alone. I informed my ever-reliable sister of my immediate distress and retreated. Every room in the house was occupied, so I found refuge in my parents' bedroom. My parents have a rather monstrous bed, and while attempting to climb up, I banged my thigh into the post (I now have a healthy bruise) which quickly elicited tears from my already watery eyes. I laid upon the bed in silent pain from my clumsiness and agony from the sound of Mr. Cowboy laughing and exchanging pleasantries with my family. Again I was in hiding, and I hated it. I would have loved nothing more than to saunter into the living room and let him hug me and pretend that all was well. The truth of the matter is that all is not well. I do not trust Mr. Cowboy and I do not trust myself with Mr. Cowboy. Thus my reasons for hiding away. I do not hide out of heartbreak, but out of a lack of trust in myself to be proper. Mr. Cowboy and I were never just friends. Never. While he was dating his current wife, he held my hand and kissed me. During his mission he wrote to both of us promising what he could only give to one of us. Somehow he expects that after all of that, the two of us can be friends. It simply cannot be. Cowardly as it seems, hiding has been my only escape. If you have any better ideas, email me next Christmas with a plan of action. 

That, ladies and gentlemen, was my 2014. Confusing and enlightening. Joyful and agonizing. I needed this year to prove to myself that I am made of tough stuff, that I have not lost my mettle or spunk or allure. I can only hope that 2015 brings me something better, and I wish the same for you. 

See you on the other side of a grand year, 

The Lady

Stats

Name: The Mountain Man

Height: 6'2"

Hair Color: sandy brown

Beard Color: a perfect rusty red

Eye Color: the sea after a storm

Age: 29

Education: PhD in Geology

Enjoys: Climbing Rocks, Jurassic Park, Just Dance

Needless to say, I was smitten. 

I began to get to know The Mountain Man at various activities (spelunking in caves, Just Dance parties, bonfires, all that jazz) and we just hit it off. But we hit it off as good pals, which suited me just fine. It never hurts to have a good guy friend, suffice it to say a devilishly attractive one. 

So tonight, The Mountain Man and I went out on a "friend date" to watch The Hunger Games, which of course was a great time (as great a time as death and destruction can be of course). On our walk home, we had a bit of heart-to-heart about our dating lives. He teased me mercilessly for "snogging" The Younger Man, and I in return made light of his perpetually single state. Which took a quick and unexpected turn for the serious. 

The Mountain Man admitted to being in a "weird place." A speech which I am becoming all too familiar with. It is not my place to divulge what sort of weird place The Mountain Man is in, but the weird place claim frustrates me beyond belief. The Mountain Man is in a weird place, The Counselor is in a weird place, Clive once admitted to being in a weird place, and The Younger Man is the definition of a weird place. What is happening to all the men? If all the available and good men are in weird places, what are us girls supposed to do? Do we wait for them to move on from the weird place, or is the weird place permanent? 

Perhaps I am all too selfish, but I do not find the weird place to be very fair. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

Perhaps sometimes it is just fine to be surprised. Sometimes it just might be nice that you actually like the guy you randomly made out with. And sometimes, just maybe it is okay that he is a little younger than you.  

To be honest, I was hoping to remain detached and aloof with regards to this situation because in general I find myself becoming enthralled with men all too quickly. But as fate would have it, the love bug has crawled right back up and bit me, and I'm back. "Can't help it, the girl can't help it." 

C'est la vie. For now that is all I can say. 

The Lady

Our world often makes me feel that I should apologize about the fact that I actually do want to get married, and that I should apologize for having strong feelings towards men. "I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not in my nature" ( Northanger Abbey). I feel strongly about people and have very rarely felt the unnerving twinge of indifference. I either like a person or I do not. And if I like a person, I generally like them greatly. This applies as much to my daily life as it does to my love life. Some see this as one of my greatest faults, and to be certain it has brought me some grief in my day, but I much prefer my strong feelings to those of a simple indifference. 

But in the case with The Counselor, I allowed my own strong feelings to blind me towards his obvious indifference. Read the signs, Lady. Read the signs. 

 I imagined that after this summer of EFY, The Counselor and I would return to school and have a whirlwind fall romance. And maybe, just maybe, we would fall in love, graduate our respective grad programs next spring, get married, and be the powerhouse couple I always imagined. This wouldn't be the first time that my active imagination led me astray. 

All I really wanted was for The Counselor to buck up, be a man, and court me as I thought I deserved. Or at least to tell me to beat it if it really was not something he wanted. When that failed to happen as I had imagined, I was given piece of advice after piece of advice from numerous friends, family members, fellow EFY counselors, and even a beloved former BYU professor who exhorted me to be bold. I can be flirtatious, but such boldness scares me to death. It is blunt and unflinching where my flirtatious nature is flighty and anything but honest. 

Nevertheless, I knew The Counselor would not give me the satisfaction of an answer unless I was direct (at least not anytime in the near future). Following one of our regular hours-long conversations, I got up the nerve to tell The Counselor how I really felt. Of course he wasn't oblivious to the fact that I had been deeply interested in him for the past eight months, but all he could say was "I don't know." For an hour. All I got was "I don't know." He hemmed and hawed and told me he wasn't good enough for me, and that he wouldn't make me happy, but that he couldn't fathom not having me in his life. The bottom line was "I don't know," but I would rather have a certain "no."

Because I feel so deeply about people, I cannot easily let them go. But I am determined to move on from this. I cannot bide indifference, and I should have recognized that sooner. The Counselor and I may be able to talk for hours on end about any subject, we may have a lot in common, I may find his stupid sweater vests adorable, but if he can't feel about me strongly, I cannot force that or pretend that that is okay. I want more than indifference. So much more. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady

This semester of grad school has it out for me. Believe me, I would not abandon you for any less worthy cause than my own education and career. I expect next semester to be less busy (hopefully), but even so who can say whether my dating life will be fruitful or barren. 

With that mindless conjecturing behind us, I wanted to share a little something I wrote for a creative writing class recently. It revolves around that rather brutish date I went on with Ben several weeks ago, but provides many details I brushed past in my haste to vent. I hope it provides some entertainment until I can return in order to update you regarding a certain Counselor who is constant in only his inconsistency. 

__________________________________

I believe I may have become a spinster as early as age twenty. The ages between sixteen and nineteen had been years of relative plenty with regards to my dating life, but once I reached age twenty, it was as if I had prematurely lost my bloom and I face my years of famine, which have the potential to be perpetual. 

First of all, I do know that Ben was asking me out as a friend. I am very aware of that fact, so I am not confused about his intentions in the least. However, gentlemen, when you take a girl out, even just as a friend, you treat her as a lady. You come to the door to get her, you do not text her from your car. You open doors for her, do not make her follow after you like a puppy. You introduce her to your coworkers if you're at a work party and you involve her in conversations, don't just ignore her while you speak to others or sit on your phone. And when you do talk to her, don't talk to her about other girls. And when you drop her off, don't tell her that you'll text her if you get bored as she lets herself out of your car. 

Ladies and gentleman, I was so infuriated when I got home that I was sweating. Profusely. 

When he was talking to me, Ben was only concerned about telling me about what sort of girls he liked. Beautiful, young ones with a hint of personality. But he wouldn't mind dating an older one like me (I am 24 thank you very much) because of my education and career I could afford to pay for him to continue to go to school. Excuse me?

Heaven help me, 

The Lady

Following several weeks of dates (between EFY sessions), The Southern Gentleman and I planned a "goodbye date," which now that I think about it in retrospect is a terrible idea. But let's be honest, I have never won an award for my good decision-making skills. The Southern Gentleman knew that the goodbye date was a terrible idea, and thus failed to show up. That's right, I got stood up. It was the first time that ever happened to me, and I do not recommend it to anyone. It's not the best of times. 

Awful scenarios of fiery car accidents and muggings and bombings and amnesia and general emergency room trips were all I could think of. A couple days later, The Southern Gentleman texted (yes, texted) his apology claiming that having to say goodbye would be too difficult. "That's fair," I thought, "but why wouldn't he just tell me that?" A question I posed to him, to which he replied, "I'm not very good at that sort of thing." 

Who, pray tell, is good at that sort of thing? Does that mean that we should all avoid saying what needs to be said in order to circumvent discomfort? When did this sort of behavior become acceptable?

We parted as unlikely friends without ever actually saying goodbye.

The question now: Do I believe in closure? I think I have been chasing after closure for years, but perhaps I have been chasing after something that does not in fact exist. At least not in the way we think of it. We want closure in the way that we get the perfect words of consolation from another person. We want some explanation wrapped up prettily and handed to us with a winning smile. But even if we get that, it's not closure. Some doors are left slightly ajar. Some doors are slammed in our face. And we continually glance back at them always begging the question, "Why?" 

A quote from one of my favorite novels:  

“This word closure . . . it is a stupid word, ja? Bach did not believe in closure. Handel did not. Beethoven did not. Only Americans believe in closure because Americans are like little children--easily swindled.”

So maybe I don't believe in closure, because not all endings are closings.

Con Amor, 

The Lady

The Southern Gentleman was the pleasantest surprise I have had in the longest time. He took me out to dinner, but forgot his credit card. I had to pay and he was simply mortified. We went to a park and chatted on the jungle gym for hours while firework enthusiasts provided us with a personal display. My hands were small in his, and were scraped against the roughly-hewn callouses on his own. He kissed me with surety and nothing short of absolute adoration. And there were fireworks. 

For the first time in years, I felt as though I could leave it all behind. All the confusion and hurt over other men. All the baggage I've been hauling around. All the uncertainties and labels I have given myself. Sometimes all you need is someone to look at you in that way to realize that maybe you're not as worn out and used up and full of complications as you make yourself feel. Maybe sometimes you just need a Southern Gentleman. 

Con Amor, 

The Lady 

For example, this summer I found myself flirting, hand-holding, and cuddling with other EFY counselors for whom I cared nary a whit. Nothing seemed to matter at all because I could not take EFY counselors seriously, and therefore I could not take myself seriously concerning them. Now this fragmented mindset towards relationships with the opposite sex does not overcome every EFY counselor as it did me, but each counselor is affected in their own little way. 

____________________________________

The Counselor (remember him from ages ago?) was an EFY counselor this summer as well, and the daze which overcame him greatly challenged my flirtatious spirit. His was a curious sort of flirting and exceeding kindness, and as you can suppose this only caused great confusion in my poor little heart.

All summer long, The Counselor showed me nothing but pure compassion. He was continually checking up on me as it was my first "rodeo" (so to speak) and expressing his admiration and faith in my abilities. After one particularly challenging week, I greatly felt the need for a priesthood blessing and The Counselor was the only one I knew well enough to ask. The blessing itself was beautiful and exactly what I needed of course, but afterwards (being quite the emotional wreck that day) The Counselor just held me and let me cry in his arms. If that doesn't make a girl feel protected and loved, I don't know what does. So there I was soaking his t-shirt with my tears, and he proceeded to tell me every sweet thing he could possibly think of (which I will not relate here, because for once it is much too personal). Blast it all. Who does that to another person? I mean really. 

The rest of the summer, The Counselor and I were far apart from each other, which was all well and good. We easily kept in touch through frequent texts and phone calls and the like. Between one of our weeks, we bumped into each other in the airport and spent our layover time laughing and chatting and hugging much longer than is typical between friends. During one distinctly long phone conversation, The Counselor told me the many details of his past dating life, mostly revolving around a particularly tragic love story which provided some insight into his long-term bachelorhood. He spent the remainder of our conversation detailing everything he liked about me and telling me how he wanted to know me better than he currently did. 

But through it all, there was no declaration of love or admission of any desire to be anything but dear friends. 

I chalk it all up to the weirdness of EFY.

Con Amor, 

The Lady 

Due to a series of unforeseen (no WiFi for ages!) nor unavoidable circumstances (moving to a new apartment and copious amounts of work to do), I was unable to publish my next post in a timely manner. What ought to have been a slight cliff-hanger such as one might find between chapters in a novel turned into a much more dramatic affair such as the cliff-hanger and the end of a novel which means a sequel is coming. Which as you all know can be the worst, for if you liked the book you agonize over waiting and if you were only mildly interested, you quickly forget what all the hubbub was about anyway. 

I always seem to be in a constant state of apology on this blog, so once again allow me to say, "I am sorry." I shall try to repent of my neglectful ways. With your forgiveness and permission in stow, allow me to move forward. 

The story. 

Tinder really is a foolish thing, and I being a somewhat foolish creature (more foolish than most I would say), I wandered onto that blasted app once I had safely arrived in Utah for my summer as an EFY counselor. I happily sorted my way through the bros and the nerds, the Peter Priesthoods and the anti-Mormons, and everything in between. No one was particularly striking at all, and it was all light, healthy flirting until The Englishman and I matched up. 

Why did I like The Englishman's profile?

1) He was adorable (sported a hideous Christmas sweater and everything). 

2) Our one interest in common was Coldplay (which is a far more important detail than it may seem). 

3) He was older (no more recently returned missionaries for me). 

4) He still had all his hair (and it was perfect). 

5) HE WAS BRITISH. 

But really, it all boils down to one simple fact: He was British. Let us take a silent moment of reflection to truly appreciate how this was a dream come true for The Lady. #tindermercy 

Needless to say, The Englishman and I hit it off immediately. We talked extensively about our families, England, our goals, music, movies, and other miscellaneous interests at whim. After chatting back and forth for a few days, The Englishman asked me out, but I was tied to EFY night after night and week after week without a break in sight until July (at the time it was the end of May). So we kept texting and he began calling me in the evenings (I may have squealed and/or giggled girlishly when I first heard his gloriously accented voice), and all was going perfectly. 

Well it was about as perfect as a relationship (?) can be when you have never met in person and the man you like is not a member of your religion...Yes, you read that correctly, The Englishman was not LDS. Not in the slightest. And here I was at EFY being as Mormon as Mormons can be, and he was being as culturally British as possible. I had no idea what should be done. 

Now there just so happens to be a simply baffling phenomenon that occurs when men actually take a liking to me. I do not describe it to boast about how "alluring" I am to men or whatever because I frankly do not understand how and why it happens myself, but nevertheless, it must needs be explained. When men like me, and I mean actually like me, they sail straight past simple interestedness towards courtship and marriage. It happened with Mr. Cowboy, it happened with Dex, and it appeared to be happening with The Englishman. 

________________________________________

You have my full permission to use this as an intermission (it's a hideously long post, I know). Go use the loo, pop some popcorn, answer those texts, so on and so forth. 

Before I knew it, The Englishman and I were discussing a serious relationship and the possibility of marriage (given we were to actually like each other in real life). Every day I asked myself the self-same question: What is my life?!?!?!? Now The Englishman and I discussed extensively all the ins and outs of what a relationship between us would mean (long distance, strict rules of chastity, and all that jazz) and somehow he was still 100% on board. What is my life? And like I said, we even discussed what marriage would be like:

Him: Would you move with me to England?

Me: When do we leave?

Him: Three kids sound good? Two boys and a girl, so the boys can watch over their sister?

Me: As long as they're British, I'm game for a dozen. 

Him: Would your family be disappointed if you didn't get married in the temple?

Me: Disappointed? No. Devastated? Yes. 

Him: What if I joined the church?

Me: It's not that simple. 

It was disjointed, it was confusing, it was backwards, it was laughable, it was lovely. The Englishman and I talked incessantly, and he even called me when he was away on business to Italy. (Oh, did I mention that he frequently took international trips for work [flying first class mind you] and offered to take me with him during his next trip to Italy in August? Such a small detail, must have slipped my mind.) All in all, everything was perfect and we decided that we needed to put the grand plan and our monumental issues on the shelf for a bit until we saw how we got on in person.

And at long last, we did meet in person, and it was all as it should have been. Except for two small details:

1) He was a bit shorter than me. 

2) I was not sure how to hug a one-armed man. Oh, yes, another small detail I failed to mention. He only had one arm.  

Now, these physical things really weren't as big a deal to me as you might assume. I didn't feel as though I towered over him, and the one-armed thing...well if I am completely honest, it wasn't that weird. Although I admit that I did not quite know how to react when he first told me, so it took me a solid month to predispose myself to the idea. But like I said, "What is my life?"

The date was just fine, and I had a great time, but there was no hand-holding (not even just the one) or kiss. Which I suppose is fine for a first date, but when you've already discussed marriage with someone, only hugging them feels like a step in the opposite direction. But it was respectful and good, and naturally we hoped to get together again soon. 

Unfortunately, EFY immediately took me captive again and The Englishman went off to San Diego. And it was San Diego that was our undoing. Now being as British as he was, The Englishman was quite fond of pubs and drinking, and if you're looking for it, San Diego has plenty to offer. (I actually am only assuming that San Diego involved a decent amount of alcohol because there would have been no reason for what happened to happen had The Englishman been in his right mind because it was not like him at all). Being entirely sloshed (or so I assume), The Englishman had the gall to send me a tasteless photo, and I ended everything then and there. Sometimes the line is very clear. 

Alas, perhaps my British fantasy was never to be.  

Until next time, 

The Lady