I’ve been thinking about my blog. For the record, I hate the word blog, mainly because it’s so LA, and everyone’s a fucking blogger in this city. But it being so focused on the aspect of dating in LA has started to irk me. I used to get amusement out of my dates- I thought, at the very least, it’s an experience that I can write about and, hey, everyone else in this godforsaken city (that I love so much) is going through the same thing.
But at 35, I’m over it.
When I moved here years ago, I was coming out of a very long, very stressful (let me not mince words, very abusive) relationship. I had committed myself to this person: mind, body, heart and soul (barf). However, this isn’t about that – it’s about my resilience and that “last straw” where I finally took my life back into my own hands and left my home state (for the second time), alone (for the first time), for the city I had wanted to live in since I was 15.
After doing that and securing my own future (with a self-imposed year of “me time” — i.e.: not interested in much else or anything remotely long term), I chose to hit the dating world again.
Some of those stories you have read. Some are TBD/stories for another day.
But in the last year (and its influx of sorrow), I have come to realize that I want so much more in life, and have (and will have) so many more stories to tell. Bad dates can only go so far. Maybe if I was Carrie Bradshaw at 25. But I’m Kat, at 35, and I want to focus on more than finding my “Big” (he totally sucked anyway). I want to find me. Again.
Do we ever stop wanting that? I don’t think so. As we age, it’s a neverending exploration of ourselves.
So if I meet some awesome friends and go on awesome trips, have a kickass experience , or find some new art I think I excel at (here’s looking at you, new photography obsession)…I’ll write about it. Because I’m a serial writer. Not a serial dater. Nor do I want to be.
(I promise I’m not a serial killer, as much as I’m fascinated with them).