“I’m off the market until my book’s ON the market.”  That’s what I said, and I meant it.  I was drawing a thou shalt not cross line in the sand. I should know better.

The last time I did that was after taking a trip with a guy I’d been dating for a few months.  We found a cheap deal to Vegas to escape winter in Wisconsin and thaw out for a while.  When we got there he invited his friends in Vegas over and they hung out pretty much the entire four days and three nights smoking pot in our hotel room while I complained about it to my sister on the lobby’s payphone. Had my car starting on fire on the way to the airport been a sign?  That’s right, on fire. The brakes locked up, causing friction to build and ignite something under the hood.  

I’ve never seen the metaphor as crystal clear as I do in this instant.

By the time we got back the relationship was also in flames. Our break-up was the final straw breaking the camel’s back–the camel’s back being my attempts at having relationships. This break-up, on top of a string of other break-ups, on top of my recent divorce had me assessing my already poor track record with men.

I said to my bestie Renee on our next girls night out, “Thirty days. I’m benching myself for thirty days. No flirting, calling, kissing, hugging or fucking for thirty days.” 

The next weekend on our next night out, a tall, dark and handsome (it may be cliche, but it’s also hella accurate) half of a twinset (which made him even more sexy)was buying me drinks and asking for my number.  Had to give him the brush off for three weeks, after which I fell madly in bed with him.  He was definitely one of the better choices I’d made.  Perhaps my brief hiatus had performed some kind of reset to the ‘my type’ presets.

And now, many years later I’m doing the same thing but for different reasons.  To continue with the sports allegory, like athletes not having sex before a big game–I doubt Lance Armstrong banged anyone the night before Tour de France–I’m not risking diffusing my energy, either.  I’m too easily distracted when I’m attracted. 

The I’m-off-the-market-until-my-book’s-on-the-market statement was made a few weeks ago, to much applause from those close to me who know this about me and support my focus.  Evidently cuing the Universe: “Let’s send Jen a nice boy.”  

Why?  I mean, Why now?  I’ve been in Key West on and off for four years, and now suddenly my good friend who rarely invites me sailing, invited me to sail with a friend of his who’s just learned how and wants some practice.  A captain.  Sure, why not.  It’s not bad enough he’s cute, funny, helpful and has great lips–he can sail and has a sense of adventure.  Am I being tested or something?  

This is bad timing.  Good guy. . . bad timing.  Feels like I’m just hitting my stride with my book writing.