The Unedited Truth About Being Likable Date Material

It’s my butt. It is always my butt. It’s firm and shaped like a peach. It is just perfect. They say that when I ask. When I ask why my butt is so outstandingly fresh in their eyes. This is a common denominator. Then there are my eyes. Those deep, changing-colored eyes. It’s deep and telling—they say that when I ask why my eyes are so outstandingly-fresh in their eyes. Then there is my smile, my wits, my spiciness, my convictions, my sense of humor, my strength, and the line of profoundly affecting features that would make me a desired Disney character in the eyes of…well…everyone. I am the fresh breeze of air, someone with a light that shines. I am just amazing. Truly. They say that when I ask. When I ask why my being is so outstandingly-fresh in their eyes.

Look, we need to admit something here: I would definitely date myself, even if not for my butt that is so perfectly shaped. I am definitely a likable-date material. We also need to admit something else here: I was not always one. My butt was always charming and neither were my eyes—but it is a recent development that I would full-heartedly, genuinely, without a doubt, date myself. I made myself likable-date material. I worked on myself. I went through the depths I am not sure many are ready to face. Some depths were voluntarily taken on, some were forced on me to take on. I, as a heroic Disney character, faced it all with strength, persistence, often accompanied by tears that did not want to stop pouring. But fuck, I always came out on the other side—as the cliche says—a better person. This is how I turned into likable-date material.

A rough ride, a joyful ride. A ride that we call life—and I am so ready to live all its downs and ups; I am so ready to feel it all.

Most of the time.

The last guy who found me a likable-date material left Boulder after our 3rd date for a planned soul-searching trip to New Zealand. Me being such a damn likable-date material, I lended my hand of support and encouragement and became his cheerleader on a journey I’ve done myself—albeit not in New Zealand.

Look, we need to admit something here again: I fucking nailed this whole dynamics with him. I was petting my shoulders all along. I became the version of the woman I was aiming for. No anxious attachment, giving him the freedom, being there for him, encouraging him, adapting to his schedule while making sure my days were running as they needed to. I was grounded and balanced—my feminine side overwrote my usually masculine-driven energies. Full spiritual awesomeness. I am telling you, I was the most likable-date material I’ve ever been.

You find all these too cocky, don’t you? You think I feel as though I am perfect, don’t you?

Well, I understand why you would think that.

Because we were raised never to admit publicly how damn awesome we became. But let me tell you something: now, in my mid-30s, I finally realized that life is about your personal journey towards your personal best self. And today, I am that: my personal best self. And hopefully in two years, I’ll be even better. And by the time I reach 80, hopefully I’ll be truly-fucking-amazing. But I, you, we, all of us need to give credit when credit is due. Right now, I deserve the credit—not from you, not from the last guy who found me likable-date material. No, from myself.

Because the ride was hard as hell. It was often pitch black without a lighter or a match or even two fucking stones that would allow me to start any fire. No, it was just pitch black without anyone around.

So, being on the other side of that dark now, tell me how damn disrespectful it would be towards myself not to give this credit? Yes, it would be utterly ugly and wrong.

Anyway, I just thought I’d put the record straight here before you find all these too cocky. Before you think I feel as though I am perfect.

And what happened to the last guy who found me a likable-date material left Boulder after our 3rd date for a planned soul-searching trip to New Zealand? I am almost glad you asked about that.

It was a rainy night in New Zealand and he said he had a 6-hour drive home. The next morning, I asked: Did you make it home? (I probably added a wink smiley too, because I am a likable-date material)

More than a day later, the seemingly white lie pings on my WhatsApp: I am sorry I had no service…and some other sentences.

White lies.

We need to admit something here again: in a parallel reality, during the rainy-no-service days in New Zealand, he saw my stories on Instagram.

Three days later, I learn: “I met someone.”

The reality.

Well, now it’s her butt. It is always her butt. It’s firm and shaped as a peach. It is just perfect. He says that when she asks. When she asks why her butt is so outstandingly fresh in his eyes. This is a common denominator. Then there are her eyes. Those deep, changing-colored eyes. It’s deep and telling. He says that when she asks why her eyes are so outstandingly fresh in his eyes. Then there is her smile, her wits, her spiciness, her convictions, her sense of humor, her strength and the line of profoundly affecting that would make her a desired Disney character in the eyes of…well…everyone. She is the fresh breeze of air, someone with a light that shines. She is just amazing. Truly. He says that when she asks. When she asks why her being is so outstandingly-fresh in his eyes.