Sometimes Your Promising New Fling Dumps You for the Monastery—Which, Okay?
Two Days Before V-Day
“Hey, Zara, can I call you?”
Remember how I wondered if Walker, the hot, introspective philosopher zillionaire, would be the one to break my Valentine’s Day breakup curse? Friends, it was looking likely! We’d been seeing a lot of each other. The sex was incredible. And then there was that recent romantic dinner at his apartment. “Zara, we can’t have sex there—my roommates eat on that table,” he said, laughing as he carried me to his desk. “This works too,” I replied, kissing him. He slowly entered me, rocking back and forth, never breaking eye contact. It’s been amazing. Until...
“Hey!” Walker looks uneasy over FaceTime. “Um, I don’t exactly know how to say this. You’re so wonderful, but”—I feel like someone is gripping my lungs, restricting my airflow—“I’ve decided to become a monk after business school, and I don’t want to waste your time.”
What. A. Motherfucking. Plot. Twist. My heart is shriveling like a raisin, but I’ve still gotta give this man credit for perhaps the most creative and unexpected ending to “the speech” I’ve ever gotten. A monk? Really?? No sex. No masturbation. A year of silent meditation. A monk???
“Um, that’s quite the pivot,” I say, trying to hide my devastation. “I had such a great time with you and hope that you find happiness.” I can tell he wants to talk more, that he is struggling to work through his own feelings, maybe even wants validation or support from me. But I just can’t. The tears are coming, and the disappointment is overwhelming. Once again, I let myself get lost in a daydream of hopeful what-ifs. “Good luck with your eat, pray, ‘no love’ journey,” I say as we wish each other well before hanging up.
An Hour Later
I’m at brunch with my friends and a lot of maple syrup and mimosas. “This shit only happens to you,” Alicia, my now-married roommate from college, laughs. Imani’s take cuts deeper: “I would literally curl up and die if I went through even one rejection this bad, let alone all the time like you do, Zara.” She’s single like me, although we live on opposite sides of the dating scale.
She’s so scared of getting hurt that she dates cautiously, trying to minimize potential pain. My approach, to misquote Sheryl Sandberg, has always been to lean the fuck in. Dating and falling in love is a dangerous game. But I’d rather end up with yet another heartbreak than sit on the sidelines too scared to try. Because at the end of the day, I genuinely think love is worth it. And each heartbreak just gets me one step closer to finding what I’m looking for...whatever that is.
Two Fridays Later, 11 a.m.
My coping strategy is to throw myself into new experiences. Is it healthy? Who knows. Is it effective? Absolutely.
Right now, that looks like a large group ski trip. I’m with college friends, including a guy, Luke, who I’ve been on a few nice dates with in an effort to get back out there. Maybe this will be a good time to test our chemistry. One problem: I have no idea how to actually ski. I grew up in Florida. Our skis go in the ocean.
“Learning to ski. Pray for me,” I post on my Insta Story. But despite the concerned DMs telling me that this is a bad idea given how uncoordinated I am, I’m ready for ski school, baby. Am I in lessons with a flurry of 6-year-olds in bright-colored magenta vests? Yes. Did anyone give me a matching vest? Sadly, no. But in a turn of events almost as shocking as Walker becoming a man of the cloth, it turns out I’m a savant on the slopes.
Later That Night
“Dude, what is this?” My friend Hallie, who planned this outing, has no idea. Our ski resort’s brochure said the “special yurt excursion” was a magical experience. In reality, we’re walking up a steep mountain, in a blizzard, only to arrive at an outdoor space where there is only a small yurt in front of a small firepit. Alas, the shuttle isn’t picking us up for another four hours, so here we are.
The yurt’s sole contents are kindergarten-size stools. I’m 5’2” among a friend group of jolly giants whose gangly limbs just cannot fit. Thankfully, we have an abundant supply of wine. Luke makes flirty eye contact and smiles at me the whole time, and when the shuttle arrives, he sits across from me. Then we’re once again trudging up a hill in a blizzard to our Airbnb, sliding on patches of ice.
Luke and I are the last stragglers. He turns to face me, gripping my arms to steady me. I bet that in his mind, this is a romantic moment—but I’ve never felt less sexy than I do right now, wet and cold in a giant onesie. “This isn’t the moment,” I tell him, trying to deflect an incoming kiss. “What?” he says. He can’t hear me through the raging wind. He also can’t see my expressions because they’re completely covered by my metallic goggles. He leans in. I’m dodging my head like a Whac-a-Mole. “Are you okay?” he yells. He thinks I’m losing my balance, so the more I try to wiggle away, the tighter he grips me. Then comes the kiss. It’s awful. I tear off my goggles, and Luke can immediately tell something is off. “Oh no, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, realizing he’s totally misread my cues. “I have to go,” I say, leaving him abruptly.
My breathing gets heavier and heavier as I run to my room, until I’m struggling to breathe at all. And I know I’m about to have a panic attack. Logically, I recognize there’s no danger here. Luke is the sweetest man on earth. But trauma isn’t logical, and the feeling of being even mildly nonconsensually restrained by a man, trying to get out of his grip, unable to escape? It triggered a reminder of a terrifying sexual assault that happened to me just days before the pandemic lockdown. I don’t want to get into the details; it’s one of the memories I keep safely locked away in my Pandora’s box of trauma. But the problem with burying things is that sometimes, without warning, even the most innocuous moment can unleash a flood of pain. And now everything is bubbling to the surface at once—the suppressed trauma, the heartbreaks, the barrage of romantic disappointments. My friend Lina consoles me through my gasps and wailing sobs.
Two Fridays Later, 6 p.m.
I’m in a bit of a catch-22. Emotionally, I don’t think I can go out with a man right now. I clearly have some shit I need to work through. But I’m still interested in exploring companionship and sensuality. And if there is a viable non-male option out there...I’m open to exploring it.
I keep thinking about Heather, the woman from my threesome. She and I definitely had some sort of spark. So that’s it. I switch my Hinge to women. I switch my Bumble to women. I switch my Raya to women.
As I get to swiping, I wonder: How do I flirt with a woman? Is it objectifying or flattering to comment with a fire emoji? This one girl, Cody, has a prompt about cheese. Will she brie disappointed with my gouda She’s the Man reference? And why does literally everyone have a cat? I have such a severe cat allergy that this is actually limiting my potential dating pool way more dramatically than I could have ever imagined.
Then a message comes in, from Naomi. “Beautiful and smart?? I think I’m already in love.” I appreciate her forwardness. We banter back and forth. She’s an engineer, and her profile says she’s ethically non-monogamous, which seems like maybe a safe way to test the waters. I’m scrolling through her pics. Cute. Cute. Cute. Fuck. Naomi has a cat. Oh well. We set up a date for next week. I’m gonna pop some Benadryl and see how it goes.
*As always, all names have been changed.
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