Coffee, Chaos & Capital Views

My dating history has gotten so ridiculous it looks like I’ve been collecting professions like Pokémon. I’ve dated a firefighter, a deacon, an NFL player, a police officer, a soldier, a doctor, a lawyer, a truck driver, a tow‑truck driver, a barista, a finance bro, and a semi‑pro (unvalidated) bowler. At this point, I could host my own career fair and hand out tote bags. And I swear I’m not bragging. This isn’t a flex. This is a prank from the universe. I feel like the universe is playing “Guess Who” with my love life.

And the wildest part is these men seem to fall in love FAST. Not “aw, this is sweet” fast. I mean “five weeks in and they’re talking about joint bank accounts, kids and where we should retire” fast. It’s not love. It’s lust with a clipboard and a five‑year plan. Meanwhile, everyone around me is so supportive of them. My friends are like, “He’s so sweet!” My coworkers are like, “You better not mess this up.” Even strangers nod like I just announced I won a scholarship. And I’m standing there thinking, “Is it me? Am I the only one seeing the red flags doing synchronized choreography?”

FLAGS I CLEARLY IGNORE

Once there was a deacon. Lord!. We were barely getting to know each other. I didn’t know his middle name. I didn’t know his favorite cereal. I didn’t even know if he liked dogs. That’s how early we were. So he tells me he planned something special for us. Cute, right? Wrong. This man takes me to a couples massage. A couples massage. I walked in thinking we were getting facials or foot scrubs. Next thing I know, we’re in a dim room undressing behind towels (at least one of us was), and he is lying there like we’ve been married for 14 years, and this is our quarterly “reconnect” session. Body parts out. JUST OUT. On display. Like a museum exhibit no one asked for. I was stunned. My soul left my body and hovered above the massage table like, “Girl, blink twice if you need help.”

Afterward, I met up with my friends, including my best friend … one of the key members of the  “Aw, just give him a chance” bunch. I told them what happened. And do you know what they said?  “Wow, he’s really into you!” “At least he’s making an effort!” NO ONE thought it was weird but me. Not a single person. I’m sitting there like, “Did I hallucinate the whole thing? Am I the only one who thinks a couples massage is a Level 12 relationship activity and we were on Level 1.5?” Maybe I am the issue. Maybe my boundary radar is too advanced for the general population.

But wait. Because the tow‑truck driver said, “Hold my beer.”

We were dating (using that loosely) during covid and one day he shows up with a bag. Not a duffel. Not a backpack. A full trash bag of clothes. And he says, “Hey, can I leave this here for a few days?” I should’ve said no. I should’ve asked questions. But something about me must scream “Sure, please squat at my house,” because I said okay. Then I go into my garage and see ANOTHER bag. Behind my car. Like he was staging supplies for a long winter. I literally ran over one of the bags because I didn’t know it was there. I called him like, “Sir, why are your belongings multiplying in my home like gremlins?” And he said, “Oh yeah, I just needed a place to keep some stuff.” SOME STUFF? Sir, this is not storage. This is not U‑Haul. This is not a climate‑controlled facility. This is my house.

He was nesting. He was setting up a satellite location. He was one bag away from forwarding his mail.

So here I am 12 years in the the DC dating scene and failing. The common denominator in a lineup of men who are adored by everyone except the person actually dating them. Maybe I’m picky. (not maybe I am) Maybe I’m cursed (PROBABLY). Maybe I’m just waiting for someone who feels right to me, even if the rest of the world shrugs. (I just want some who can read and knows what they want…and is many a touch bit handy) At this point, I’d settle for someone who doesn’t require a background check and a LinkedIn endorsement just to date. DC dating is trash.