chasing men
that one time I literally sprinted after a guy I was dating
My feet slam the asphalt. Punching my arms with each stride, I squeeze my fists. I’m sprinting. This is no run. This is a chase.
I check my phone. He hasn’t called me back.
Cars whip past on the highway to my right. The building ahead of me isn’t getting closer fast enough. I glue my eyes forward. I can’t see anyone I know. Not now. I can’t explain what I’m doing.
He had to have looked at my location before he ran to my apartment and told me to catch him. We don’t talk about the fact that we share our locations. Originally, I took it as a sign of intimacy. He had nothing to hide. He shared his location with me first, I shared mine back.
In lieu of him texting me to chat, which he never does, I check his location mindlessly. I’m not stalking him, I swear. I just want to know where he is. Admittedly though, whenever I see he’s in Manhattan, I clear my plans for the night. Just in case, I put my phone on loud.
I’d like to say it’s because we have so much fun together. But really, it’s superficial. When we walk on the street, women stop talking to stare at him. I see their eyes on him, how they look at me, and then look away. He’s the first person I went on a date with after my ex-boyfriend and I broke up. My greatest fantasy is that we’ll be out to dinner and he’ll walk by and see us. He’ll know I moved on and traded up. In the end, I would win. I’d do anything to win.
It’s this desperation that terrifies me the most.
Earlier that night, I warm up a pitiful microwave dinner and flop onto the couch. My roommate Lily and I eat our dinners in silence, looking at our phones. I check his location. He’s in Manhattan.
“Lily, it’s so weird. He’s in the city, but didn’t text me,” I say.
She looks up. Lily isn’t crazy about him. She sees how he comes over late at night and leaves early in the morning. Picking up a book, I stare at a paragraph.
“Lily, he’s downtown. Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
His location inches around the bottom of Manhattan and then up the west side. He must be going back uptown. I put the book down. I’m staring at his dot. It’s hovering one street below ours. I refresh. It has to be a mistake. He’s right outside my apartment.
Incoming call. His name on my phone. I let one ring pass. Then another.
“Hello?” I say, playing dumb.
“Come outside.” He’s panting.
“What?”
“Babe, I’m on a run. Come down, let’s go.”
“I can’t just go on a run right now. I have stuff to do,” I say.
He hangs up.
Lily looks up from the couch, obviously having heard everything.
“Did he just assume you’d drop everything and go now?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m not going. That would be so desperate,” I say, but my mind is racing. I didn’t really workout today. I could use a run.
Don’t go, I counter. You can’t do that.
But I really want to see him.
No, you can’t go. Do not fucking go.
As though possessed, I’m in my room ripping through my drawers. I can be out the door in two minutes. But Lily is going to see me leave. I dart out of my room and into the hallway. The slam of the door muffles her calling after me. I’ll have to deal with that later.
In the elevator, I stare at myself in the shiny buttons. I loosen my ponytail. Pulling at my gray t-shirt, I wish I chose a more form-fitting tank top. I spin through the revolving door onto the sidewalk.
It’s empty.
Fuck.
He left without me.
“Babe, I couldn’t wait for you.” He picks up my fifth call. “I told you to catch me.”
He hangs up.
I need to go back upstairs. I never should have come outside. My heart pounds. I look down at my running shoes. I inhale. My feet start to move.
Not back into my apartment, but towards the water. Step by step, my strides get quicker. I blow the hot air out of my mouth. Before I know it, I’m jogging. Arms swinging. My feet slap against the sidewalk, faster and faster. Somehow, I’ve started running.
“I’m on the West Side Highway, where are you?” I text him mid-stride.
Sweat burns my eyes. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up a sprint. No matter how much distance I gain, I still can’t see him. What kind of fucked up date is this?
I see a CitiBike dock 30 feet away, filled with bikes. I run faster, darting towards the rack. Fumbling with my credit card, I pull out a bike and jump on.
Slamming the pedals, my legs pump with fury. I need to stay angry. Anger is safer. If I’m not mad, I’ll start crying. The patheticness of this situation will crush me. If I slow down for even a second, the only person I’ll hate is myself.
I breathe harder, swallowing the lump in my throat. Once we’re together, we’ll sort out the miscommunication. I don’t want to run with him anymore. I just want the chase to be over.
I whiz past the 14th street sign. I can’t believe how far I’ve gone. Cranking the brakes, I pull over. Three missed calls.
Somehow, he’s behind me. Smirking, he jogs easily up to where I’m standing.
“Damn, speed racer. Were you in the Tour de France and didn’t tell me?” he says. He hardly stops, bouncing in place. “Okay let’s go. You bike. I’ll run.”
I nod, too mortified to speak.
He starts running, heading downtown. I’m back on the bike, trailing next to him. I don’t say anything about how messed up this night is. I ask him about his day. He talks about his plans for this weekend. I’m afraid to look at how late it is.
We reach my street and I look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. Silence.
Finally, I break.
“What are your plans tonight?” I ask. I look at his watch. It’s nearly midnight, I assume he doesn’t have any.
“I’m going to meet my friend from London who’s in town,” he says. “He’s staying at a hotel down here.”
My nose burns. I inhale sharply.
“Oh yeah, okay. That's cool,” I say, awkwardly holding the heavy CitiBike. “Well, good night.”
“Night,” he says, without moving towards me. “Good to see you.”
He gives me a nod and turns. I’m too shocked to do anything. His back moves further and further away. I force myself to cross the street. I don’t need to watch him to know that he did not look back.
Dragging myself into the elevator, I replay what I should have said. I check to see if he texted me. I’m not surprised that he hasn’t.
In the morning, I jolt awake. My alarm is screaming. I rip off my covers, my heart pounding faster than it did last night. I’m terrified of being late to work. I force my feet into heels and fly out the door. Speed walking to the office, I’m retracing the exact steps I took the night before. In the newness of dawn, it’s even more pathetic.
At the office, I throw myself into work. My boss remarks at my focus as I finish a project early. I tell him it’s the coffee. My phone stays firmly shut in the desk drawer. On my way home that evening, I check his location. No texts. I turn my phone off and finish my walk in silence.
In the elevator, I stare at myself in the mirrored buttons. The dark circles below my eyes, puffy from the lack of sleep, remind me that yesterday’s nightmare was real. Like a bruise, they’ll fade. Time will soften the shame. I know this, so I vow not to forget the promise I made myself. Never again will I run after someone who doesn’t want to be caught.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling. There’s nowhere to escape my memory. I’m finally still, but I still can’t catch my breath. I close my eyes, begging sleep to come and replace last night’s nightmare with a new one.
All of my relationships were screaming the same thing. Stop. But I didn’t listen. I’d rather sprint the great rat race than sit in my own skin. I had one goal. Get the love I couldn’t give myself. I chased after everyone. Esteem me. Value me. Like me, so that I might be able to like myself.
It’s clear to me now. I wasn’t looking for love, I was looking to be loved. I didn’t yet know the difference.
I was trying to juice a rock. If what I was seeking was self-acceptance, I needed to go about it differently. Chasing someone is no way to get closer to yourself. Yet, I didn’t stray from the course. I kept smashing rocks and complaining there was no water.
It’s said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
I’d like to say that was the last time I’d ever chase a man. But that would not be true.
quick hits
Location / Time: Midnight in Barcelona, Spain
What I’m Eating: Anything and everything from Frizzant
What I’m Reading: This podcast about quitting by Holly Whitaker and Emily McDowell
What I’m Celebrating: My first essay came out in The Cut and another one is coming out in another pub next week ❤️ I spoke on NPR about sobriety, you can listen here.
What I’m Thinking About: A very dear friend said they love my writing, but they’re excited to see me write about things other than addiction and chasing men. I am too. I felt that I needed to write this story from years ago to release myself from it. I’m eager to write about how my life is now. One marked by creativity, big friendships, art, and savoring slowness.
What I’m Doodling: live updates from my move to Spain
