Uno, Two, Trois

Even though it was a necessity that I travelled to the USA before my visa expires later this year, it was also a much needed time away from the "Elu P" and "Balablu" madness in Nigeria due to the just concluded presidential election at the time.

Surprisingly, I didn't have a list of preplanned activities lined up, which is my usual M.O cause I love "maximizing" every single day while I'm on vacation. I however decided that this time, I'd make a conscious effort to just REST. 

Waking up almost everyday to only shower, order food via Door Dash or Uber Eats, binge shows and movies (with superfast unlimited WiFi of course), and then go back to sleep was the definition of "vacation" I didn't know I needed. I literally didn't leave the apartment until my friend got back from Dallas a few days later and dragged my butt off the bed.

So this write up isn't about all the ways I stuffed myself with food (sadly) or the exciting activities I engaged in.

This post will focus on, wait for it - the opposite sex. 

Didn't see that coming, did you? Well, neither did I.

The Italian

Out of boredom (and following bad advice from one of my friends - you know yourself), I signed up on Bumble a few days after I arrived in San Francisco, and swiped right on a couple of men folk.

I was matched with an Italian-American and we had a brief chat and then a voice call.

We eventually switched to video call and may I say he looked waaaay cuter then he did in pictures. It didn't help that he kept throwing in a few Italian sentences here and there during our conversation. If you know me, you know I'm a sucker for Italian and Spanish.

Fast forward to two hours or so later, that spark ended as quickly as it started, so did my Bumble account, but it was fun while it lasted. No need starting what we can't finish, biko.

The Black American

Now this dude and I "met" in an unusual way - I was a FedEx customer and he was attending to me as the Store Manager. But the way we immediately hit it off? It was like we had known each other for months. 

We literally talked about every and anything in the space of 30 minutes - from work, to ancestry (he's got a Nigerian bloodline apparently), to relationships, to politics - and the vibe was pretty...interesting. 

My friend couldn't help but ask if he was single and she immediately took on the role of cupid - not like I was complaining.

Long story short, we exchanged contacts and yeah, that was it. Don't hold your breath for any updates though cause you'd most likely be disappointed. Just saying. 

Side note: I met a white American too. He came over to my friend's apartment to visit her landlord and I couldn't ignore the fact that he kept staring at me like I was some work of art (I mean I am, but still) He finally broke the silence by complimenting my hair and then we got talking. A few minutes into our conversation, he held my hand and asked me to be his girlfriend. I jokingly accepted cause he's obviously a joker. 

Anyway, I was in a relationship with him for about an hour - probably the shortest relationship in the history of relationships. 

The French 

I was at the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) train station racking my brain on how to buy a Clipper card because the vending machine kept failing. Luckily, (because misery needs company) I spotted a French man going through the same challenge. So we teamed up and voilà! We figured it out eventually.

He happened to be in San Francisco on a business trip and was leaving the next day. So he offered to take me out for dinner that night.

As the foodie that I am, I couldn't pass on free food now, could I? Even though I was lowkey praying to God as he picked me up from the apartment that he wasn't a serial killer that would drive me to my doom. I've watched way too many movies and documentaries to not be paranoid. 

Thank God cause as you must've figured, I'm still alive typing this blog post, plus dinner was exquisite! And for once, I actually ordered a glass of wine with my dish. Boujee, I know. (Fun fact: The word "boujee" was coined from the borrowed French word "bourgeois", a term that originally refers to a member of the middle class in France) Let me not even get started on the mouthwatering tiramisu I had for dessert. Foodgasm! 

Oh well, too bad he's not my type. Who knows where that night would've taken me. Paris, perhaps. 

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Incase you're wondering, I'm sha back in Lagos and I'm still single. But these encounters reminded me of how there are so many opportunities to be open-minded, dip your hands into uncharted waters, meet someone completely new and willingly invite them into your space. 

I guess it's taking me much longer than usual because from experience, I've realized how much I thrive in my own company, which makes it easier for me to soak up the fact that being "alone" doesn't mean that I am "lonely". It's not like I don't love being around people, or better still, cuddling. But I absolutely love my own space and time perhaps a bit too much. 

Maybe (or certainly), there's some deep rooted reason behind why I am the way I am, which I  should make a conscious effort to dig into. But like everyone else, this somewhat-cynical self-sabotaging-romantic is still a work in progress. 

So have a little faith in me, will ya?

The More You Know...

One thing about me is that I am not afraid to ask questions.

When I'm not sure about something someone said, I ask them to repeat themselves. 

If I can't seem to find my way to a certain location, I don't hesitate to ask someone on the road for directions (especially when Google Maps is acting a fool)

If I need more information on a situation, I ask whoever is involved to explain further. 

I've been told I'm like a dog with a bone, and I couldn't agree more. That's because I believe that asking several questions doesn't necessarily mean you're incessant and certainly doesn't mean you're stupid - in most cases.  

Quite contrary, the more you ask, the more you know. And the more you know, the wiser you become. 

However, the one aspect that I had to learn the hard way not to always ask questions is when it comes to closure. I've gotten burnt a couple of times just because I wanted to understand why someone did something that hurt me. And more than half of the time, I didn't get the answers I wanted or thought I needed. 

Some years ago, a friend of mine told me that she didn't believe in closure, and she still doesn't. According to her, not everyone needs to know why their relationship has ended - whether it's romantic or platonic. Sometimes, just allowing the relationship fizzle out and letting go without a one-on-one conversation about the "what, why or who" is the best option for both parties. At the time, it may seem like only one party is benefiting from this, but in the long run, the other party would too.

It took me a while to agree with her opinion, seeing as I've always been big on communication irrespective of how uncomfortable the case might be. But as the years went by and following more discussions with her and my own personal experiences, I realized that she's kinda sorta right. 

The ironic thing about "closure" is that most times it "opens" up new wounds. What if the reason the person isn't your friend or significant other anymore hurts more than the fact that the person just isn't? 

Ask yourself if you would be able to handle that. If you can, then why not? Give it a shot. 

I, on the other hand have learnt to balance when to and when not to bother about getting closure. Some people and cases are worth the emotional and mental courage. But others? Not so much. 

Because sometimes, you don't get closure. You just move on. And honestly, I'd rather stick with the latter. 

Wouldn't you too?