Dating is hard.

I've never done much of it, myself. Maybe that's why I find it so hard now. Or is it so hard because I've never really done it? Ah, paradox.

I've dated boys, kind of. Flirted, gone to dinner, called boys my "boyfriend." Or, sometimes, my "non-boyfriend." That one stuck around for a long time. But none of these things were ever real relationships, you know? There was always something off about them.

And then. Oooh, and then. When you find the man you plan on spending the rest of your life with, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most incredible feeling.

You start planning things. Your wedding, your life. You see things unfolding before you in such a glorious way. You're secure. You know where you're going, where your life is going. You're happy. Happy.

But then. When, in the space of five minutes, your entire world gets turned upside down and ripped apart and the love of your life has broken you, it's... I can't even tell you. It's the most devastating thing.

You sit on your sister's couch and cry for weeks. You shower, occasionally, and then put your pajamas back on. You eat, when you feel you must. You stare, sometimes at the television, sometimes at nothing in particular, sometimes at words, empty words on a computer screen.

It changes you. So deeply, so completely.

You start to get over it. You put on real clothes and go outside. You go on a vacation (the wrong vacation, as it turns out - more on that later). You get cards and words of support and comfort. You put on a smile. You get a job, you move out of your high school bedroom (and into the basement, alas), and you just... try. You try to move on, to get on with things, to keep living.

I've done pretty well, I think. I love my job (most of the time), I've become even better friends with some fantastic people, I've realized how strong I can be, or apparently was all along. In some ways, I've really come into my own.

In a lot of ways, though, it's like I'm starting back from the beginning. I'm learning how to breathe, how to walk, how to move through life successfully.

Dating is not something I really excelled at in the first place, and now, now it terrifies me. Not that I've had a whole lot of opportunity to be actively afraid, until recently. I rebounded, I tried to put myself out there, kind of. With a safety net. A big huge safety net, and really no worries about my emotions at all. Things were going to happen, or they weren't, and either way, I was okay with it. Was I really just that laid-back about it, though, or had I sheltered myself? Have I built an insurmountable wall?

I met someone. Kind of. A passenger on my plane, who I had some really great conversation with. He waited for me to get off the plane at the end of the flight. We walked together. He asked for my number, and I gave it to him with a smile. As we walked away, he called out to me, "I promise I'll call!" And he did, within 12 hours. He left a very sweet message. I did not call him back. Yesterday, my phone rang. I picked it up to see who it was, and dropped it like a hot potato when I saw it was him.

Why am I so fucked up? Why can't I just take this opportunity and see what happens? Why can't I even let myself try to be happy?

I'm already finding things wrong with him, wrong with the situation, and I don't even know him. I don't even know him, it hasn't even started, and it's ruined in my head. I want to call him. Or, at the very least, I'm aware that I should want to call him. But the thought of picking up that phone... it sends me into a mild panic attack. So what do I do?

So far, nothing. I just do nothing. Because I'm paralyzed with fear, and doubt, and an inability to open myself to any possibility of good things because of the possibility of being hurt again. I cannot be hurt again. Not yet.

There are things that I want. Things I long for. But I think that I only let myself want things that, really, I know I can't have (or, deep down, don't really want, in the end). There's no fear of getting hurt that way.

I need some momentum. To break down these walls, that I've built around myself.

Seven.

I remember hearing somewhere once that a person should get seven touches a day. Hugs, handshakes, pats on the back, whatever, as long as it's physical contact. I don't recall what the exact reasoning was, but I don't think that's important, because the concept makes sense to me. I start to feel detached if I don't have some sort of physical contact with people, like I'm not actually connected to the world around me, but just floating about in it, somehow.

When I lived with my fiance, the seven touches a day thing was no problem. There were hugs and kisses and holding hands and hands on knees in cars and a whole realm of physicality between us. I didn't have to worry. I always felt connected. Grounded. Present.

It helped that I lived in the same town as all of my friends, and a lot of us are very touchy-feely people anyway, with hugs abounding. (Abounding? Is that even a word?)

Now, however. Now I have none of that. No live-in man who is required to touch me at least occasionally. No hug-happy friends nearby at all times. Some days I force my cuddling upon Jess, who tolerates me. Some days I shake hands with pilots. Some days I get hugs from people at church, and often from my parents. But it doesn't seem the same. It doesn't seem like enough. How can it be, when it sends a shock through me when a nice old man squeezes my arm as he leaves the plane? How can I be getting enough contact with the world when it startles me when my knee brushes a passenger's as I walk down the aisle of my plane? Clearly, it's just not. It's not enough.

Last night, I hung out with a very friendly group of people, half of which I barely even know. We all got a little bit tipsy, and after five hours of chatting and laughing and drinking, the night ended with hugs everywhere, between everyone. People I had just met hugged me. People I've known since seventh grade hugged the breath right out of me. And this after a night of casual contact, hands on arms during a story, arms around shoulders, hands on knees to make a point. Last night, with a large group of fairly random people, I felt grounded, connected, wonderful.

Why doesn't the world hug more? I think I would be a much happier person if my world involved constant hugging.

I want to feel like that all the time again.

First things first.

It's hard to know where to start, when trying to tell the story of your life.

I could tell you about my first memory, which is of puppets in the playroom of the hospital where my grandpa was dying. I could tell you my latest news, which is that I completed the Times crossword today. Or I could jump right in with confusing details about my life and job, with no attempt at back story or explanation.

I love the movie Love Actually. I could watch it over and over again; and, in fact, I have. I think my record was four and half times in one night. (That's what she said.)

It's the waiting that gets you, you know? It always has. The wondering, the checking, the obsessing. I really need to stop obsessing. But it seems I just get worse and worse the more I wait. I don't even know if there's any possibility there yet. I just don't like the not knowing.

Jump right in, it is.