Sometimes I feel like the best things happen to you when you least expect it. Maybe it's a dress by your favorite designer — just your size and hidden in the middle of the clearance rack. Maybe it's a missed train that turns into a gained connection. Or perhaps it's simply the gift of good timing.
I'm not quite sure how a weekend of having no plans except for an early Sunday morning yoga class turned into a misty (thank you, San Francisco's May climate), eventful, and somewhat emotional three nights of new friends, outgoing coworkers, several margaritas, a backyard-grown salad and my favorite bottle of chardonnay, but it undoubtedly did.
I'm still left wondering, though, how these few days of consciously made choices left me feeling rather unsettled and not more satisfied.
Let's take a look at the days' events.
Night one involved a few too many margaritas and Pacificos, a rail-less roof with a gorgeous view of the city's two illuminated bridges, several colleagues ... and a coworker's friend: a gorgeous, tall black guy with the smile and personality you always hope the guy who hits on you in a bar has but rarely does. Needing a place to stay since I was somehow convinced to not grab the last train back to my city on the other side of the bay, I easily gave in to his hospitable offer — a package that included a bed, cuddling and a ride home in the morning.
Night one blended into day two, as said kind gentleman kept his word and drove me home, but his friend — my coworker — was in tow and quickly became a member of the car's Inquisitorial Squad, constantly asking for the night's details and not giving up the fact that I had consciously set a boundary, kept it, and that while, yes, I slept there, I didn't do (much) more than actually sleep.
Night and bed number two was thankfully at my own place but shared with an aforementioned Man #11. Expecting a low key night — maybe fall asleep to a movie on the sofa as we've done in the past — man-in-a-suit who made his way to my place after a friend's wedding couldn't even make it to the couch. Having stripped out of his navy pinstripe ensemble down to his bleached white boxers and throwing on one of my bathrobes, man-who-called-in-advance-to-make-plans proceeded to quickly fall asleep on the floor of my apartment to the Norah Jones that played on my Pandora — me: brushing my cat with one hand, running my fingers through his hair with the other.
Not quite the low key evening I was anticipating, but I rolled with it, enjoying my scented candles I all too often neglect as well as the unexpected time to study #11's worthiness for Cute Things Falling Asleep. Why he didn't understand that a half-hour later it was my turn to sleep and that I wasn't exactly "in the mood" is, quite frankly, beyond me.
Day three brought clean sheets, the sweatiest yoga class followed by the longest shower, and a short stint at my favorite café interrupted by my own excitement (and thus unfocused mind) for the dinner date — a second date — I had later that evening. Dusk brought a hurried drive into the city welcomed by my date's genuine smile, warm I'm-going-to-let-my-hands-linger-a-little-longer-than-usual-on-the-small-of-your-back hug and kiss-on-the-cheek greeting.
...Because going 80mph across the bridge didn't flush me enough.
Having not had a date that felt so natural, easy, comfortable and fitting in a long time, I gave in and let down my wall, trying to just be me, sans nerves, expectations, questions or concerns. We must have done something right, because our mid-kitchen-and-cooking first kiss turned into a dinner-by-candlelight, which in turn led to a snuggle sesh on the couch, and, well, you know where I'm headed: bed nombre trois.
Each bed, each man, each night was a conscious decision. Conscious decisions for which I, as a single-and-looking city gal trying to navigate her way through a web of men, feel no regrets. Decisions about which I felt comfortable before, after and while I made them.
And yet, I can still feel a tinge of uneasiness, of instability, of wondering if my weekend was over its alloted man capacity. Of wondering Did I just ruin my chances of something big? as I opted out of the second-date-sleepover and kissed that last one, standing boxer-adorned in his doorway, goodnight.
I've boiled it down to this:
It's rarely settling when you're in limbo, waiting, and wanting an immediate answer to satisfy your greedy curiosity. When your mind is formulating fast-forward fantasies, it's hard to remember that with a deep breath and a step back you can more easily rediscover that balance between your excitement and rationality, and remember that only time has the answer. Rushing it would only put you at risk for damaging the blooming potential.
While some of the uneasiness may also be nestled in the societal shame in and stigma of sleeping with more than one person, I'm more grateful for the ghosts of feminists past who made it possible for single gals like me (and you!) to enjoy three nights with three men in three beds.