Some Thoughts on First Dates

Ah, dating in your twenties. Does anyone really know how to properly do this? In an attempt to entertain myself, I got on Tinder for exactly the third time in my life. The first two times would require their own posts, to be honest. This time, I was simply there to swipe left and reassure myself that I’m single because there are essentially no men to date in a 100-mile radius of where I live. Until, that is, a handsome stranger super liked me. How could I ignore that? He was cute and charming; he messaged me first, seemed intelligent, and asked good questions. He didn’t text me obsessively, didn’t come on too strong, and we seemed to have a lot in common.

Then he asked me out to dinner. Dinner? This is new. No guy has ever taken me out of dinner. I’ve had some school dance dates here and there, but they were less than exceptional. I’ve had guys contact me late at night. I’ve had guys promise me a lot of things that they’ve never followed through on. But dinner? Never.

Cue nervous anxiety breakdowns that I had about 4 times a day. It’s casual.

Dinner with a handsome stranger? That’s a lot of pressure. How can I make a good impression while shoving pizza in my face? What if my brain shuts off? What if I’m not enough? These and more were the many thoughts running through my mind for the five days leading up to this date.

The day came. I bought a new shirt and even put on powder foundation. I arrived five minutes late, but I’m pretty sure he was there 15 minutes early and was already sitting at the table when I got there. He hugged me and smiled. What proceeded was two hours of this handsome stranger basically putting me through the ringer; I was more or less interviewing for the esteemed position of being his girlfriend. I couldn’t keep up. His incessant, prying, and overly-serious questions were draining me. I barely knew the guy. But he was charming, and enthusiastic, smart, well-read, and clearly going places in life. I was hooked. Hello rose colored viewing glasses, nice to make your acquaintance.

Two hours later we got up to leave. I had to take my pizza home in a box. I then proceeded to forget said box of pizza as we left the restaurant. He walked me to my car, which was parked inordinately far away, and I had this sinking feeling things hadn’t gone well or according to his expectations. When we got to my car, I expected a hug, but he kept his distance.

“So we’ll keep in touch and maybe hang out again,” he said coolly.

Ouch. “Yeah definitely,” I echoed. But I knew that wasn’t true.

It stung. It stung all the way home and the next day. But then I got over it. (Side note: I texted him a simple “thank you” text the next morning and he confirmed he was no longer interested.)

As much as it sucks to be rejected, I’ve been on the other side of this. I met up with a guy last spring for ice cream spontaneously. He was nice. We had a good conversation, but I wasn’t into him after it. No particular reason, it just wasn’t there. And that’s okay.

I have to accept that not every guy is going to be enamored with me after meeting me. I also have to appreciate myself for even doing this. I put myself out there, I was vulnerable, I was hopeful, and I learned from the experience. Sure, it didn’t go as one hopes these things will go, but perhaps that is for the best.

Everyone goes on first dates, fewer go on second dates, and that’s just how it goes. My first kiss was nerve wracking, but the second? Easy breezy. That’s how I feel about getting this first date out of the way. I feel freed to approach future first dates more casually. I won’t put so much pressure on myself and put so many expectations on the situation, because that’s not fair to anyone. I’ve also learned that dinner for a first date probably isn’t the best way for me to connect with another person and that maybe I should be more punctual and probably not leave a whole pizza sitting on the table when someone else paid for it.

The biggest lesson though? His disinterest doesn’t make me less of a person, a bad person, an unworthy person, and I cannot sit around and wallow or wonder what I’ve done wrong. All I can do is dust my shoulders off and try again.

And so, I think this is what dating in your twenties is supposed to look like: A lot of no’s, a collection of funny stories, tales of nights gone awry and just maybe a sprinkling of magical fairy tale goodness here and there. So, here goes nothing.

Who is Windrose for?

These are words for those who are wandering and wondering through the open spaces of young adulthood, words for those navigating the unchartered seas of a life all your own. Whether starting a new job or investing more in your current one, moving to a new city or creating a home where you already are, making new friends or feeling the loss of your old ones, booking that trip to Europe or only staring at a calendar void of vacation days, Windrose is for YOU.

Where do you ship?

We can only ship within the United States. Sorry to our international friends! We still love you! But you can still get your digital copy of Windrose!

When can I expect to receive my copy of Windrose?

Windrose Magazine is back in stock! Woo! You can expect to receive your magazine by the 3rd week of December -- just in time for December graduations and Christmas!

How will you be shipping these magazines?

We will be mailing your magazine via United States Postal Service. You will receive a tracking number via email once your magazine has been shipped.

Anything else I should know?

No returns; all sales final.

I still have questions...

Just shoot us an email at info@thatfirstyearblog.com and we'll respond as quickly as we can!

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The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

RelationshipsAndria ModyDecember 12, 2017Comment