There’s an online countdown ticker that I’ve been tracking on a daily basis—as of today there are 93 days until my wedding day. To think that in nearly three months I’ll be married to the love of my life, my person, is a comforting, exciting and wild thought, all at once. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel real. Against all odds—i.e. matching on Bumble at the height of a global pandemic—we are here now, fills up my heart and makes me beyond happy.
Finding a partner who truly sees you is a gift, particularly when it can often feel hopeless and exhausting to be understood and seen by someone else. Though, like any love story, my journey to this very moment was full of formative (and cringe-worthy) life experiences—some with some big, big feelings.
The grief and loss I’ve experienced in the last three decades are a part of my life that I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on and working through (shoutout therapy). However, I’ve never given a ton of thought to the dating misadventures of my early to mid-twenties.
After graduating college in 2011, I moved back into my childhood home. And like so many millennials and post-grads, I found myself trying to figure out a) who I was b) what I was doing with my life c) what my social life looked like in my hometown of San Diego and most importantly d) how to date.
Visions of my former, angsty self were resurfaced when I unearthed a series of journals from 2011 and 2012 upon a recent visit to see family.
In reading through these journals, I was reminded that while I always felt like a late bloomer, I never felt alone in my late blooming. I never really dated. In middle school, junior high and even at my charter high school, I had a series of steadfast crushes, some of which felt all-consuming. I never acted on these crushes, I just journaled about and pined over them. Later in college, my priorities outside of school were adventuring with my friends and lightly entertaining the occasional but underwhelming crush.
The timing of finding these journals is serendipitous in rewatching old episodes of Lena Dunham’s ‘Girls’ and her newest series ‘Too Much.’ Watching ‘Girls’ when I was 22 felt like I was holding up a mirror. Rewatching it again, thirteen years later and those same feelings remain. Lena Dunham was, and for me, is, as Hannah Horvath stated ‘a voice of a generation.’
But with her recent series ‘Too Much,’ set primarily in London, I found myself having odd déjà vu to so many exchanges between the lead character Jessica and both her ex-boyfriend Zev and her new love interest Felix, a brooding musician.
Dating boys in bands in San Diego was such a core memory in my early to mid-twenties, that I often cringe thinking about. Just months after I moved back home, I started hostessing at a local restaurant while working at a local public radio station, a foray back into the arts and culture happenings of my hometown. To leave your hometown for college and then move back home a different person at 21 is a strange feeling. I felt lost, like I was searching for my people, my purpose and ideally, my person.
Through my new job and internship I was able to start figuring out what life looked like post-grad. And it turns out, it involved going to a lot of shows for local bands across various genres—from surf rock, to tropical chill, to electro pop. As I wandered around venues in San Diego, from The Casbah to Soda Bar, I remember thinking about my mom at my age.
My mom passed away when I was six and up until that point, at 21, I felt like I was still trying to figure out just who she was. I’d heard so many stories about her backstage at shows, with iconic hair and fabulous style. I couldn’t help but fantasize about how she lived her own ‘Almost Famous’ moment.
It didn’t really matter who the band was, going to a show at a local venue felt like I was connecting with my mom in a way. Standing in a dark crowd with sticky floors, wearing my Urban Outfitters skinny jeans and a crop top, with copious amounts of black eyeliner, I was exactly where I needed to be. I was in my element.
With little-to-no experience dating, I found myself open to whatever opportunity arose. Making eyes with the synth player in a band whose songs I didn’t think twice about? Count me in. Chatting it up with the bass player with floppy hair. Yes please. Smiling at the Mumford and Sons-esque fiddle player? Sure!
Night after night, I would go to these shows in the hopes of meeting my Russell Hammond à la ‘Almost Famous.’ And in re-reading my old journals, I discovered that it only took six months before I found myself in my first situationship (generous to call it that) with a boy in a band who I saw as the Russell Hammond to my Penny Lane. The Jordan Catalano to my Angela Chase. The Felix to my Jessica.
Here are some of the highlights and lowlights from that time:
Not knowing I was on a first date with said musician because I thought he had a girlfriend. He said he didn’t. (Note: He did).
Ditching my best friends on New Year’s Eve to hang out with this musician. (Note: For fact checking purposes, he texted me I should ‘not tell anyone’ I was meeting up with him).
Getting ghosted after a few weeks of hanging out and being told that I was ‘focused elsewhere and seemed too busy.’ (Note: Likely I was focused on figuring out who I was post-grad?).
While whatever we had was short, I filled up thirty pages of my journal processing the post-boy in band pain that occupied my brain and my heart. Thirty pages.
Looking back now at 36, I wish I could have given the younger 20-something version of myself a glass of water, a big hug and some real talk.
1/6/12
Pick him up from band practice. He’s worried about the band's NYC shows next week—thinks there will be record label people there. I try to reassure him.
1/25/12
Things I’m feeling right now:
Like I’ve lost my voice
Angry that one person can make me feel this way
That boys in bands are bad news
San Diego is a burial ground for love
2/19/12
Did he even like me or was he just bored?
Am I playing it too cool?
Do I even know what I’m doing? …no
I was 22 and I was in over my head. I was made to feel like I was in the wrong, like I was simply too much.
The hardest part of reading through these journal entries, is to know that a situationship that lasted mere weeks could impact me so much and cause so much heartache. The amount of Elliott Smith and Lana Del Rey I was listening to was not okay. In my life post-college, I was attempting to figure out who I was and this broke me.
Fast forward, of course, I worked through it, but it happened time and time again with other boys in bands. I lost my voice and felt crazy. I wish I would have given myself more grace though I’m grateful for all these late night mistakes along the way. And knowing that I wasn’t alone, thinking of my mom and other women who have picked the angsty musician for the story, for the romance, even if it ends in heartbreak.
Oh the memories! Glad we are light years away from those times!!!
I feel like we all eventually learn that "boys in bands are bad news", some earlier than others <3 BLESS Michael for not being in a band