Seeking the One

Rhea

“Seeking The One” she typed, her hesitant pinky finger dancing nervously before lightly stroking the ENTER key. The browser eagerly obliged, a teal webpage stretched across the screen yielding improbable promises of “that special connection” . Satisfied user testimonials littered the columns underneath pictures of impossibly beautiful people smiling just a little too hard. The guarantee of nabbing your life partner at a few clicks of a button seemed a major ask, but Rhea persisted in her search wherever potential could hide. She took a deep breath as she began filling out the first time users questionnaire. “Have I really fallen so low?” she continued to the first question.

“If you could watch only one movie for 6 months, what would it be?” Not exactly the soul bearing calibur of question she’d been expecting, but at least it wasn’t “What’s your ideal Sunday afternoon?” Which of course if it had been, she already had that answer locked and loaded. Who doesn’t wanna waste away a simple Sunday coupon clipping and day drinking pink moscato? She wasn’t boring, she knew HOW to have fun, but it was with whom that was lost on her. Rhea worked constantly and found herself with little time to go out. Since the divorce she’d fallen out of contact with the women she’d once been closest to. Rhea knew that the split from Amir would be a world changer, she just hadn’t prepared herself for total solitude. Friends often have to choose sides after a couple separates. Unfortunately, none of those friends chose her. The loss of her structured relationships blew a massive hole in her life and adjusting wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped it might. Over the years she’d known friends going through divorce that grew closer than ever to their support system, coming out nothing but stronger on the other side. Resilient sisterhoods born in the pain of the lowest ebb and bonded by the durability of unyielding pillars of strength. Ultimately coming out unbreakable on the other side. Unfortunately for Rhea, it was as if the second the door slammed closed on her marriage, she’d been shot into space to drift alone, cold, and unseen. A complete and total foundational collapse.

With a nod and a sigh she refocused on the images of beautiful, undoubtedly paid couples embracing one another. Sucking her teeth, Rhea thought for a moment. What movie could she watch on loop? Grease? Maybe. Not Titanic, that was too mushy. Too mushy and too fucking tragic. Rhea had experienced enough tragedy. Though she thought that back in the day, Billy Zane could most definitely get it. Billy boy now? Not so much, but back in ‘97? Absolutely. She was never much of a Leo fan like the other girls she’d known, but she had swooned over Cal and his dangerously explosive possessive nature. She’d never admit aloud for fear of having her “Feminist Card” revoked, but the slap scene always made her shift a bit in her seat. No matter how many times she saw it, it always carried the same impact. Rhea could feel her face heating, her cheeks growing more red with each passing second. She thought briefly about how that should have been an early warning for her eventual head first dive into relationships with toxic and unhealthy burning piles of red flags disguised as men. Rhea made a mental note to revisit and reflect on these mildly problematic feelings at a later date. For the time being, she once again brought her wavering attention to the daunting task at hand. Answering stupid fucking questions designed to help market yourself to strangers that likely arent anything like what they say they are. The first answer finally came to her. The Princess Bride. Rhea had always wondered what it felt like to be loved so entirely. Loved so fiercely. Not the type of conditional love that Cal had offered to Rose. Not a love that hinged entirely on appearances, status and possession, but actual true love. What would it be like to be Buttercup? Surely it had to come to her one day. For many years she thought she did have it with Amir. Unfortunately, reality had kicked Rhea square in the ass in the last few years of marriage. She was left behind in the Fire Swamp all alone. Every day felt like Rhea was sinking further into the lightning sand. Westley had been happy to face danger and even death to get back to his Buttercup. She desperately hoped her Westley was just around the corner. Until then, she’d have to make peace with the fact that she was the haggard old booing woman. “Boooo! Booo! Rubbish! Filth! Slime! Muck! BOO!”Just terrific.
Four long hours had passed before Rhea finished her online profile and published it for all men in a twenty mile radius between the ages of 30 and 48 to see. Rhea could only pray that nobody she knew in life would  see it and share it among the group of friends she had once belonged to. She had no delusions of them repairing their relationship, they'd made that perfectly clear, but there seemed something so weak and tasteless about being a thirty-something divorcee advertising yourself to strangers. For them to see her on dating sites would kill her.  It was like slapping “AVAILABLE” across her forehead like she was a hideous hand-me-down chest of drawers from great aunt Tallulah being pimped out on Craigslist. Free to a good home but MUST be picked up. It wasn’t really any different from dolling up and wasting away those ideal Sundays in Saccharine Bar uptown, but somehow it just felt so much more dirty and impersonal this way. The shame she felt was almost palpable. A physical thing she was nearly able to hold and manipulate in her hands. It was heavy and burdening. If only she could let it go so she could swim out of her ocean of self loathing. Instead it weighted her down. Rhea was drowning, but she’d been drowning for a long time. She spent her whole life drowning. For a long while, Amir had been her inflatable raft, a reprieve from the raging black waters. Salvation from that constant feeling of explosive burning in her lungs and sting of salt in her eyes. But even the most reliable vessels could spring a leak. Shit, they’d said not even God himself could sink the Titanic. She’d learned her lessons the hard way, but she was ready to learn to swim. “Every beautiful butterfly stroke starts as a pathetic doggy paddle” she thought before cringing at the improvised inspirational poster her brain had conjured.