Recently, I finished a book.  For me, and maybe only me, there is something deep inside that inspires me to write.  I would also like to assume that, based on my lack of writing, it’s obvious that I haven’t read anything lately.  Life, it happens.

The subject matter, ultimately a story of coming clean, only drives why I think I need to write.  To be vulnerable.  To be honest, even at the prospect of not getting any response in return.  I have a date.  And I’m terrified.  I think I’ve finally hit that place where I’m equally as terrified to move forward as I am terrified that I’m going to stay in a state of permanent singleness.   It’s the relational version of Schrodinger’s cat.  (Five points if you can tell where I referenced that from.) 

I took an entire year (May 31, 2011 – May 31, 2012) where I took dating completely off the table.  For the first time in my life, I genuinely put it aside, completely acknowledging that there is more that I want God to do in me and through me.  To be alone with just Him.  At first it was easy.  A sweet peace.  Until a guy crept in.  And flirted.  And flirted so shamelessly that friends pulled me aside in bathrooms and pointed out that He. Flirted.  It was all very Saved by the Bell.  Except that I’m the girl that falls hard and fast and can’t move on. But of course, he can, and did. (Without a doubt, this is a perfect time to mention that he moved on by trying to ask out not one, but TWO of my friends.  You are not as smooth as you think, Rico Suave. Girls talk.) And so I tried to regain my focus.  And repent and just love on Jesus.  And my year ended, just as seamlessly as it had begun. 

And here I am, two months post commitment.  A boy asked for my number. (I shudder.)  He calls.  (I am so terrified that I contemplate throwing up or showering instead of listening to the voicemail.)  I listen to the voicemail.  (I also take a shower.)  I call back.  I am judgmental of him based on what I heard.  He asks me out.  I say yes, with only hesitation in my head not my voice.  I am completely freaking out. (Present tense intentional.)

I do not have an inflated image of who I am.  I know I struggle with a gaggle of insecurities that would baffle most men, including all of my friends.  I work tirelessly to hide them, only showing them when I have to, when the cracks are so large in my heart that I can’t hide them, or at least can’t hide them all.

I pray and I hope and I dream, but when I am presented with reality, with this reality, I can’t help but find my stomach in my throat and my knees shaking.  Singleness is safe.  Saying you want something and actually pursuing it are two completely different things. 

What I know (and MUST accept) is that I have doled out enough advice that it’s time for me to shut up and listen to those who love me.  Who will pour into me the same way I have poured into them -- with love and respect for their advice. 

I have no idea what sharing this means.  It’s just me being vulnerable.   I guess this also probably means that I should keep you posted.

Over and out.

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