I've been sort of dating this guy for a year, and I'm pretty certain it blossomed into something more than that this weekend. I think? Yeah, I'm just as confused as you are. Try being in a "maybe" relationship for that long.  For an entire year, we've been hanging out together, going on dates together, partying together, staying up until wee hours together, meeting each other's parents, sleeping at each other's houses...but not physically sleeping together. For. One. Year. Until now. I feel like I am in high school all over again, and you held out until prom to finally get it in with your boyfriend. Oh wait, this case is worse... who actually waited until prom, any way?  OK so whose fault is this you ask? Probably mine. But maybe also his. You can be the judge.  However, for the sake of the blog, I'll call him Maybe, Matt.

I was introduced to Maybe, Matt by an Air BNB couple who rented out my condo in May 2016. My 'tenants' and I hit it off immediately and they told me about this dude who literally just moved two streets from me (how convenient!). "If anything, you two should be friends," the couple said. And so that's exactly what happened. We became insta friends.  And I kept him as such for 366 days, to be exact.  I wasn't immediately attracted to Maybe, Matt; there was something about his face that bothered me, if I'm being honest.  But the more we hung out, the more I started to embrace his company, and the more I was intrigued by this human. I even talked to many friends (and mom) about Maybe, Matt and how I knew I liked him... but. There was always this damn but.  Maybe it was because in  so many ways he reminded me of THE Ex: that sincere, kind, gentle, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly, pushover, shy but confident, I'll-do-anything-for-you, non-jealous, could-send-him-on-Temptation-Island-and-wouldn't-have-to-worry, honest, kind of guy. The kind of guy that every girl dreams of -- the kind of guy I flew across the country to get away from.

I knew he liked me and made that subtly clear; asking my roommate about my feelings, inviting me to weddings and to meet his parents, etc. But, Maybe, Matt lives up to his name: all while asking me to do things with him, he would not ask me to do things with him. I'd go days, even weeks without hearing from him. Sure, being independent is a great thing! I'm independent and I embrace that quality in a person. But there's being independent and than there's being too independent. He'd do fun things, albeit, alone, and wouldn't think to ask me to join.  "Maybe we could go watch a movie. Maybe I will see you later. Maybe we could go for dinner." Maybe, maybe bloody maybe.  He's an excellent DJ and knowing that I love house music, and all things rave, he would spin a set in his home (did I mention he lives two streets away?)  without asking me to tune in, or come over to listen.  He'd tell me about these great bars he went to, which coincided with my days off, but never invite me to go.  And when I did have days off, he wouldn't dare take the opportunity to see me. There were so many times that I would ask him to come over, or go for a drink and he'd respond he's too tired and would just rather stay in... alone.  He'd go for walks alone, go shopping alone, go to the beach alone, ride his bike alone, listen to music alone, watch a movie alone, work out alone, eat dinner and drink... alone. So, where did I fit? Where do I fit in?

Naturally, I got hurt, insulted, frustrated and confused. A man that could spend so much time with me but yet, be so completely OK with living his life sans me, was beyond painful. So, I stopped trying. I started dating other guys. I started trying not to give a fuck. I wondered if he was seeing someone else, but my gut feeling that said that he wasn't. He's not that kind of guy; he's not into playing the field, or having multiple relationships, he's not...well, me.  I wonder if he just doesn't know how to be in a relationship. Does it change anything to know that he's... 40?  Remember all this time, we hadn't even hit 2nd base. We had kissed once, pretty sure I gave him blue balls a couple of times, too.  Is it possible that men eventually just give up?  I apologize for not being able to just spread my legs for the sake of spreading: I need to feel some kind of love. Some kind of assurance that you won't bail right after your P hits my V, which undeniably has happened to the best of us. And for some reason, with Maybe, Matt, it was important for me to establish a solid friend base with him before we did the dirty deed. Was it because I actually liked him? Or was it because he was just that... a friend? Either way, I couldn't help but wonder... in a kind of twisted, 21st century, somewhat insecure, sexist but unfortunately accurate thought:
                                                 
                                                If I fuck him, would he become more available?

One day, I snapped.  I was (drunk) fed up and, finally, my own emotions, my confused feelings for him had caught up to me. I had kept him in the friendzone for so long, he knew it, I knew it.  Despite his pathetic ways of showing me he cared,  I was so genuinely worried about losing him as a friend that I would back away. Amidst my snap, he professed that he didn't know which card to play with me: Friend or lover. While his Houdini acts and lack of communication made me take a step back, my keeping him in the friendzone, made him take a step back. Catch 22. I was maybe-ing the shit outta him and not even realizing it: we were stuck in neutral. How could we overcome this?   I knew I had to sleep with him, not just to sense a physical connection but, it was much more than that for me. It was a make or break moment in our non-existent relationship. It was a moment of vulnerability. It was a moment of stepping out of my comfortable, innocent high school crush zone to full on prom night into college love affair. Was I ready? Was he?

So, after 365 days plus one, I gave up my naked body and soul. And it was glorious. I immediately thought... fuck. I really like Maybe, Matt. But would he be willing to change his lonely ways for someone who sincerely wanted to share a future?  Did he just want to get laid? Was this Game Over?  And for a while, he was doing so well: no more Houdini acts. We spent a whole weekend together! It was something I secretly wanted for a long time. But how long would that last?  At one point he told me "I'm the perfect girl for him... right now." I laughed. Right now. I repeated that phrase over and over in my head like a broken DJ record. I'm so sick of living in the now. I've lived in the past, the now, and now... I'm ready to live in the future. But is the future with him? Do I want a future with him? The fact that I'm even writing like this is a defining moment for me. To admit feelings, to talk about the future is definitely not something I'm accustomed to. But truthfully, I'm just so afraid that my past will define my future. With THE Ex, there were no games: he loved me and I loved him.  But I took his love for granted many times. His constant phone calls, his relentless texts, his persistence in wanting to be around me, his "good night beautifuls".  I miss those days. I miss that reassurance. I miss that comfort: it's all I know.  Even if at times I was bored and annoyed thinking that was just routine behaviour, it is one routine that I yearn for today. Hell, I wonder if I'm cursed: will I ever get those repeat "sweet dreams" and those "good mornings" again? I don't think I'm asking for too much, am I?  It may mean fuck all to some, but to me, it means everything.   I hope to find that again. It may be with Maybe, Matt. But will I be around to find out?  Maybe I'm just a fool. But had Maybe, Matt not pulled another mind-blowing magic trick tonight, and disappear into thin air perhaps this blog post would never have existed.  I just wanted a "good night".  Hey, it's only been a year. Call me crazy, right?   I took you out of the friendzone, just like you asked, Maybe, Matt. But now the ball's in your court. Checkmate. Make your move, type your text, play your next track.

Good night.

Amour Toujours,

La Blonde xx

When I was 15, I met the cutest curly haired blonde boy at an all-inclusive resort during March Break.  He asked me to walk along the beach while my parents watch closely from a distance. On his last night, a group of us went to the hotel disco where I had  one too many slushy drinks and for the first time saw double. I also found out that he had a girlfriend back in Edmonton but that they been together for "so" long and that he needed a change. I was confused as to why he was flirting with me when he had a girlfriend, but I was happy to know that I was the one he chose for his "change".  We fooled around on a outdoor massage chair on the beach and fell asleep in each others arms. I thought it was love.  He left and I never heard from him again. I pictured myself flying to Edmonton and casually bumping into him at the West Edmonton Mall where he'd remember the fun we had and we'd live happily ever after.

When I was 23, I went to Australia and I met a charming red head, who was a complete player and met girls for a living. He was an excellent manipulator and knew exactly how to get girls to sleep with him. I had never experienced such a mastermind. We dated for a month while I was there and had, what I thought at the time, was mind-blowing sex and a great connection. I came home feeling like a new woman, confident that our relationship would surpass all time-zone odds. I continued this dysfunctional, disillusioned, Facebook/Skype relationship with a man who was doing and saying the exact same things to me as he was with several other passer-bying backpacking beach bums. I knew this because one drunken phone call he gave me the password to his email account. I took it and ran; it was the Heaven's way of protecting me against this horny sociopath of a liar. I got over it real quick and looked back at my time as a perk and curse of being in my early-twenties.

When I was 28, I went to Barbados and met a beautiful Caribbean with dread locks perfumed of coconuts and skin like maple butter. He had all the right moves, and said all the right things. He was a sensitive soul who just wanted to be loved and show off a white girl in his hometown. I became his girlfriend for a week. Never in my life had I extended a vacation until then. I stayed back three extra nights to get to know more about this person I was so deeply intrigued by. I knew it wasn't love, but it was infatuation, fascination, entertainment. I tagged an expiration date on him the moment I stepped on to the plane home. As quickly as my curiosity escalated is as quickly as it dissipated; during my 72 hour exploit, I found out he was to be engaged to a British girl with the same name as me.

I am now 31, and in a ruin bar in the heart of Budapest. Craving nicotine, I caught the attention of a pretty, blue-eyed Brit. He had charm and whit that the British so stereo-typically have and a smile like the British so stereo-typically don't have. We immediately engaged in a deep meaningful discussion about men's genitalia, a conversation I so eloquently chose. I acted my crude, self-proclaimed standup comedian self and he did not seem to mind. We chatted about everything and nothing and all the while, it was as though the music, the people, even the smoke from my cigarette stood still. Anyone who would try and interrupt our moment didn't stand a chance. Immediately, he challenged my 15, 23, 28-year-old beaus and all ages in between: for the first time, I didn't picture an expiration date. Hours later, a Canadian girl and a British lad were still at it. I was a terrible person that night; I ignored my friend with whom I was traveling, smoked one too many cigarettes and revealed all things about myself I probably shouldn't have. But, I didn't care: never had I felt so comfortable, so at ease, so vulnerable with a complete stranger. I never wanted the night to end, and by the looks of it, neither did he: he had ask me to go for breakfast just to prolong the evening. When he finally kissed me, what seemed like a century long wait, a foreign feeling came over me; my knees felt weak, a kamikaze-like gravity pit hit my stomach, a spinning feeling similar to the one when you get off the giant tea cup ride at Disney World. I wished at this point I could just blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol, but unfortunately for me, I knew it was much more than that. I was in trouble.

But instead of picturing myself bumping into him on the London Tube, or planning scheduled Skype dates, or applying for a UK work visa, I did just the opposite: I tearfully and poetically recited exactly how our seemingly perfect connection would never be. I described how truly magical our encounter was, how thankful I was to have met such a passionate, caring and gentle soul and how incredibly special he made a gal like me feel...But. But, how our time-zone distance relationship was unrealistic, how Facebook and Skype would be easy at first, but then what? I sat at a 24 hour bar in the heart of Budapest sobbing and sabotaging a relationship I so badly didn't want to sabotage. It was my way of protecting myself; my Scorpio self-defense, my shield against my soon-to-be bruised ego when I find out he's married with kids or he was really just on cocaine all night. He listened closely to my words, wiped my partly-drunken tears and smiled a sincere smile: maybe he knew I was right? We continued into the morning hand-in-hand watched as the vendors set up for the day, the tourists chatted and pointed at buildings. We watched in silence as the world went by. I felt like I was in a movie. It was one moment I wish I could have stayed in forever, but better yet;  it was a moment I finally deserved to be in.

I live for moments. I live for spontaneity. I live for adventure. Like when you hear that perfect beat drop in the club, when the sun peaks out from under the cloud and the warmth hits your face, a love note in your locker from a crush, a kiss from a total stranger that makes you forget where you are, when your favourite sports team makes that unforgettable winning goal, a man with his guitar playing as if no one is watching.

I've been told that I live in a movie more than once. Well if that's the case, then The Brit was one of the best scripts I have ever read.

"Life is a collection of moments. The idea is to have as many good ones as you can" -- 5 a 7 Movie.

                                                                        - The End -

Amour Toujours,

La Blonde xx