When I met Harley, I was in love with someone else. I was always in love with someone else; a guy who made poor life choices and strung me along like a loose thread begging to be pulled. Names would change, but scenarios remained the same. This was what I was into. Needless to say, unrequited loving wasn’t exactly productive or beneficial in any way that mattered (read: between the sheets) so I took to online dating for more substance – if you can believe that.
Andrea Loewen is the author of The Receptionist, a blog that highlights her love of cats, photoshopping Ryan Gosling into her life, feminist musings, and other daily life inspirations. While no longer a receptionist, she is currently a theatre geek who met her soon-to-be common law partner on Tinder… after growing up Menonnite. Here she talks about a life that has taken a very different path since that purity pledge as a teenager…
9:35am He’s married? Did he just say he’s married? Oh. My. God. I wish I were deaf, so I didn’t just hear that. God! God hates me for not believing in him. This is payback, and it’s in the form of a wife. What a horrible woman! Stealing my secret future husband. He doesn’t even wear a wedding ring. I have never seen or heard of any topic even remotely related to eternal vows with a soul mate in a year of working together. In 365 days, he never had the urge to mention her? Is she the elephant woman? Maybe she’s just hideous. No. She’s probably cute. A super cute, blonde, Kindergarten teacher who wears short shorts because her legs are perfect.
They were driving back from a documentary about farmed salmon, a topic that Janet was vehemently passionate about, sometimes overly so in Gary’s private opinion. Especially when the topic arose, or didn’t arise—at which point she’d force it into small talk—during cocktail parties hosted by his fellow professors. He didn’t always appreciate the zeal with which she sometimes sounded off; it appeared to him an exhibition of self-righteousness. But outwardly, he genially supported her causes. Gary was, after all, a wilting sort of person who avoided confrontation with the same extra sensitive caution one might undertake trying to lay a sleeping baby in a crib.
There was a drought. An absence of companionship that sunk in after a fun but short-lived fling with a photographer, which I’d ruined by yelling at him for not calling me in over a week. “This was behaviour he wasn’t willing to tolerate,” he’d told me, rather fairly, before hanging up. I was confused, since I’d managed to convince myself I was never one to get caught up in neurosis over guys. At least, guys I wasn’t serious about. I blame my lack of reason at that time to the weird world of drugs, drinking and anarchic pseudo-hipster culture that was consuming my days on the East Side and inflating my sense of self-righteousness.