“I can’t read you,” they say. “You’d make a great poker player.”
I’ve heard it most of my adult life: that I’m impossible to read. Now that I’ve entered this new world of dating in my mid-thirties (gross), I hear it more and more often. And the more I like the guy I’m seeing, the more I feel compelled to explain why.
I’m highly guarded for good reason. I’ve spent the majority of my 30-we-don’t-need-to-be-specific years recovering from one personal betrayal or another. When I let people in, I’m vulnerable. When I’m vulnerable, I get hurt.
It started with the first — and arguably most important — relationships of my life. I carried that pain forward to romantic relationships in my twenties; those men treated me the same way I’d been treated growing up. I’ve been used and abused and it’s left me jaded and nearly hopeless.
I’ve heard it most of my adult life: that I’m impossible to read. Now that I’ve entered this new world of dating in my mid-thirties (gross), I hear it more and more often.
But I do still put myself out there in the dating world; I do still take chances. If you were to ask me what I expect or what I’m looking for, I couldn’t tell you. It’s when you think all hope is gone that someone comes along and surprises you. I hope I’ll be receptive to that someone, and that I’ll be able to let him in… even a little. Quelling the fear that he’ll run away screaming.
Before that happens, I know we’ll be sitting down for dinner at a casual Italian restaurant when he’ll ask, “have you ever considered playing poker?”