Unleashing

It had been building for awhile. The unleashing.

If you read just two or three posts here, you’ll learn quickly how “emotionally unavailable” is my type. How the nefarious “player charm” that gives some women the ick gave me butterflies.

How I’ve allowed myself to be used or even abused because I didn’t have the awareness to understand that pain doesn’t equal love and that unavailability doesn’t mean “go forth and chase.”

Suffice it to say, I have a history of choosing the wrong type of man.

So, on my last date with said type of man, the dam was about to burst, and many years of rage, anger and fury was about to be violently unleashed.

Poor guy. He had no idea what was coming. Frankly, neither did I. But after months of doing the hard work to understand the whys behind my poor choices, my man-picker was about to revolt and say, “Oh, hell no—not another one. Not on my watch.”

We started the evening at a sports bar in Campbell. We had actually met IRL at a Super Bowl party (where my bestie at the time said, “Do not give him your number, Sienna, he has fuck boy written all over him”). I decided, why the heck not, he’s cute, he’s charming and he smells nice. A trifecta of sorts. How dangerous could he be? The real question was, how dangerous could my man-picker be?

I sat down next to him on a barstool and the first words out of my mouth were, “You have player written all over you, and I am not sleeping with you tonight. So, don’t get your expectations twisted.”

I stopped myself in my tracks and thought, “Damn, girl. You sound crazy.” But my man-picker was ready to rumble.

He laughed. “Wow, you think you got me pegged, huh?” flashing a smarmy grin and sliding his hand onto my knee.

“I said what I said,” grabbing his hand and pulling it firmly off my knee. “I’m here for a drink, to get to know you. If that’s not your plan, should we call it right now?”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m just playin’ witcha.” He took a big gulp of his beer, reset his “who the fuck is this woman” facial expression, turned back to me with a forced smile, and said, “So, what do you wanna know?”

We spent the next hour talking about his job at IKEA, my job as a writer, his ex who was still hung up on him (eye roll), Bay Area sports, and a bunch of stuff I don’t really remember because I was really, truly, mostly focused on one thing: putting him and every other wrong type of man I’d dated firmly in his place if he so much as hinted at crossing the line. (I gave the knee thing a pass . . . but my man-picker was on full alert and unwilling to grant a second chance).

He passed the gentleman test over the next hour. Then we got to the restaurant.

“Soooo, what do you think about after dinner? Your place or mine?”

Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl. Welcome to My Tipping Point.

Every fuck boy I’d dated, every player who’d lied, every man who’d used me—that’s who my handsome IKEA manager became in that moment, all of them rolled up into one aging, salt-and-pepper, lame-ass, disrespectful 50-something. And while the Mama part of me said, “Now, Sienna, use your inside voice,” my man-picker said, “Come at me, bro!”

And The Unleashing commenced.

“I knew it! Your place or mine?? First, it’s ‘Netflix and chill’ now, dude—you sound old. Second, that’s the cheesiest line in the book—do all ya’ll take your lines from the same playbook? Does that work for you? You can’t even buy me dinner before you know where you’re gonna try to get laid?!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Oh, you meant where are we gonna play Scrabble? Where are we gonna have ice cream and chocolate chip cookies? What did you mean, IKEA Boy? Your place or mine for what? Playing fucking Parcheesi??”

Those were the words coming out of my mouth, and they didn’t stop until he stood up, said, “I gotta use the restroom,” and quickly hurried to the back of the restaurant with his head slightly tilted.

In some circles, I’d be called crazy. In others, I’d be a bitch. In still others, I think both “crazy” and “bitch” would come up as viable options. Fair. My reaction didn’t quite match his level of douche baggery in the moment.

And yet when I tell you that I did not care one iota, I mean it. The Unleashing was liberating! And more importantly, it was confirmation that my new and fully-functional man-picker was large and in charge of my dating life now.

One of my biggest fears about stepping back into the dating pool has been what if I still keep choosing the wrong type of man? What if the broken parts in me and scars from my past will always and only be attracted to men who hurt me—or can’t really love me?

The Unleashing was validation that what I once found irresistible and attractive was now nauseating and offputting. To be clear, I will probably always feel a certain kind of chemistry with emotionally unavailable men who don’t want a real relationship—but now I can recognize that chemistry as a potential reg flag, not a green light.

We left the restaurant that night in silence. There would be no second date. Not another text. I even said, about 10 feet outside the restaurant, “You don’t have to walk me to my car, ” and he took that as his Get Out of Jail Free card—he couldn’t move fast enough to the other side of the street. It was like he had little tiny cartoon wheels for feet that rolled him right on out of there.

Good riddance, IKEA Boy. I’m so glad we met, I’m so glad you tried, and I’m so glad you failed. Because, for the first time as a single adult woman dating post-divorce—for the absolute very first time—I knew I could trust myself to take care of myself. I may have gone a little above and beyond, but my spidey sense was right and true and protective.

Dating may still be a bitch . . . but so is my new and improved man-picker. I’m in good hands now.

Love you,

Sienna