This is Friday Feels from Feeling Phine. The last post in this series is right here. x
Comment te dire adieu // (It Hurts To Say Goodbye)
I date in cycles. Perhaps it's due to my hypersensitive nature, or my predisposition towards ennui, but historically I’ve only managed to date for six or so months at a time. After a certain limit, tired and disillusioned, I always inevitably retreat back into myself.
The last cycle was the most incredible flop I’ve gone through so far; a wonder to experience, remarkable to behold! The key to this chaotic recipe was blending my loftily high expectations with my newfound instability. Thanks to the pandemic I'd just lost my job -nifty work visa attached- in what felt like the blink of an eye. Suddenly it was time to leave Singapore. In one tear-filled week I said goodbye to my apartment, my friends, and the life I’d built over the past four years. Following the upheaval, I was transplanted back to California, crashing in the senior living community where my mom resided. “Everything happens for a reason!” I told myself.
Prior to the world going awry I’d found myself fed up with Singapore’s transient, expat-filled dating scene. Although my newfound circumstances were anything but ideal, I was hopeful. Had I previously envisioned myself settling with an OC frat bro, tall white socks and all? No! But after years of looking and looking, I’d be open to it, so long as he was kind, empathetic, and perhaps keen to travel with me once the world was normal again.
The antics kicked off fall of 2020 with the Sickeningly Handsome Psycho, who I met through a friend of a friend of a friend. On our first and only date, he told me there were “no uglies allowed” at home, and that his parents valued his partners’ looks over any other quality. I asked if his parents had approved of his “crazy” ex, who he had also described as stupid. Sure, they loved her! She was very pretty, he said. Well hey, what a plus that I’m not dumb, I replied. He laughed. I’m unsure if he’d even detected my seething undertone.
I escaped the Psycho with haste, then dove into the arms of Prince Popeyes, the French engineer I’d met while waiting in line for a sodium-filled feast. I introduced myself immediately after hearing him order “one ‘alf a cheek-en.” Numbers were exchanged. He was perfect on paper. I was hyped. But then, on our date, he remarked that I seemed “déprimée” (depressed). Somewhat bruised by his mental health evaluation, I didn’t follow up for a second date. As he didn’t either, I concluded he wanted someone more peppy. I sunk deeper into my melancholic state when I noted that, in Proustian form, I’d forever associate him with the tangy kick of Popeyes Bayou Buffalo sauce.
My next object of affection was a Beefcake. This love interest was more often than not unrequited. This was extremely conducive towards the overall entertainment value. Vying for his affection became a sport to me, one that provided a much needed distraction from the pain and confusion of the past year. The chase lasted a few months, until one day, I was snapped out of the reverie. “You’re planning to be a writer, and you want to be with someone who can’t spell?” My best friend had a point. In my unstoppable zeal to seduce and acquire, I hadn’t deeply considered our actual compatibility. My misplaced passion and efforts fizzled out. The game had stopped being fun.
There was one bright spot amidst the back to back failures. A blast from the past presented itself in the form of a high school crush who cropped up in my DM’s. We had drinks, we people watched, we kissed. It was easy and lighthearted, and then, it wasn’t. We texted less and less, and then he moved to Canada. This wasn’t a surprise; he’d told me he was planning to move the first time we hung out. At the start, I thought the predetermined expiration date would allow me to relax. In retrospect, it triggered caution on my end, as well as bouts of overthinking. Nonetheless, our time together provided a sweet little capsule experience. I kept the horny memories close, and reaped the single benefit of budding romance cut short: at least I had a fresh subject in mind whilst dramatically singing along to any song involving a “one that got away.”
After those colorful eight months, I was ready for a break. In well-meaning and wholly unoriginal form, I did what the guide books and gurus tell you to do when you’re feeling lost: I focused on self improvement. I worked on making myself happy! I went back to school. I started writing more. Per Ariana, I saw it, I liked it, I wanted [it], I got it. For me, “it” was manicures, new books, and lovely solo dinners. In moments where I wasn’t enjoying my own company, I spent time with family and friends.
Months passed. The one year anniversary of my repatriation came and went. Then it happened: a year and some change after being painfully uprooted, I finally felt a tinge of inner peace in my new life. Adding a layer of satisfaction to this feat was the fact that I’d achieved it on my own.
I thought I’d be apprehensive to let this bliss come to an end. Alas, the desire for company crossed with opportunity, so I’m dating again. To fortify my mindset this time around, I’m focusing on this truth I’ve gleaned from the last cycle: within every experience, good or bad, lies a lesson. With this in mind, I’ve firmly decided to avoid setting foot inside Chick-Fil-A for the next six months. I’d die before I let a man ruin fried chicken sauce for me ever again.
Last week, I promised “thought-provoking, enthralling, and spicy” content. I’ve determined the above essay delivers on the first two, but I’m conscious it might lack a bit of spice. Fret not! My friend and long lost sibling, Rax Will, wrote an incredibly spicy story for LA Times Food about Indonesian cuisine! 11/10 would recommend: CLICK TO READ IT HERE :)
Fabulous!
Loved this story and the featured quote 😂