The Pit of Dating. Don’t even think about trying to escape. 

Another date in the books.

Being a single mom that actually wants a committed relationship is kinda the pits. It is far easier now to just meet and bang or meet, bang, and hang for a month and then just fizzle away. The dating atmosphere is so fucked now. And really, I do intend to say FUCKED. That is what is it built to provide.

I am divorced just a few months shy of 5 years now. I have done my fair share of on-line dating in that time. I am currently on sabbatical from it as it has caused me nothing but stress, confusion, heartache, and anger. Yet, wonderful stories to use on the ol comedic stage. Now, aside from that, my personal growth and whatnot has been astronomical since my divorce. Cheers to Ang, for sure.

Truth be told, I didn’t even drink or like wine until 5 years ago when this whole dating thing started for me. Coincidence?


One of the things that is so frustrating and heartbreaking about online dating is the constant pattern of “getting to know someone”. Letting someone learn about my life and my personality and my quirks and then doing it all again just a few months later. I am quite tired of talking about myself and answering the same questions and hearing the same compliments over and over from different men.

With my personality, I share a lot right away unless I know immediately that you are a cad.

That includes sharing the existence of my damn disease. Usually on the second or third date it comes up and I have to flipping explain it again. I have never had someone say that they couldn’t handle it or that my cyborg adaptor on my tummy just grossed them out. It normally brings comments like, “Wow, you are amazing”, “You handle it really well and don’t look like a diabetic at all”, “I think it’s hot that you’re a cyborg.”

That comment about “not looking like a diabetic” is a sure fire way to not sleep with me on the first date.

This is also now a measure of how I will proceed with men that come into my life romantically. The last three that I dated all provided a measure of how to treat and not treat my disease. Two were/are wonderful, absolutely taking it all in and wanting to know as much as possible. The third, not so much. His treatment of my disease was like it was a cocktail we tried and didn’t really like, but were polite about.

“How is it?” he would ask while falling asleep or walking out the door.

“Fine, thanks”. I should have known right away that he was a monster. A handsome monster.

Point is, dating sucks and auto-immune diseases suck and sharing your heart and having it broken sucks, and wanting to be alone all the time but wanting a partner at the same time sucks.

But we keep going, cause what the hell else are we supposed to do.

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