This is my journal entry from October 25, 2025, part of my daily autobiography Book 5 — Daily Autobiography — my real, unedited days, published in order.
Holy shit. I’m recording this at midnight because my whole body is buzzing with adrenaline, and I need to get down what happened today before the feeling fades. I went to the Halloween event at a local spiritual community tonight, and on the drive over I felt that familiar mix of hope and doubt. I was heading to a place where I barely knew anyone, wondering what the night would hold, wondering if I would end up standing around alone, pretending to be social. Part of me expected nothing. Part of me hoped for something. I had no idea what was about to happen. It even took me a while to find the place, which fit the mood — wandering around in the dark, uncertain, curious, a little annoyed, and trying not to let it show.
I should get to the point instead of circling around it like I usually do. I met a girl. I should have said that in the first sentence, but here we are. I met a woman, and I don’t even know for sure whether I caught her first and last name. The whole encounter lit me up in a way I didn’t expect, and even saying that feels like an understatement.
There were so many familiar faces at this Halloween party at a local spiritual community, which surprised me. A friend and her partner showed up — a friend had texted earlier saying the two of them were coming, and it felt reassuring to know I wouldn’t be wandering around a party twenty minutes from my house, near the beach, from 6:00 p.m. to midnight without a single person to anchor to. Seeing them walk in and immediately come over to say hi steadied me. Then I spotted a friend, which was another unexpected bright spot. And another surprise: A woman from the studio from my yoga studio was there too. Out of maybe forty or fifty people, I actually knew four of them, which drastically changed the energy of the space for me.
A friend introduced me to the woman I met and said, “This is my friend,” and I later found out she had already told her a bit about me — that I’m an author, that I write books constantly — and it sounded like she’d talked me up enough that she already had a positive impression of me before we even exchanged a single word. I internally laughed and thought, Nice job — really appreciate the marketing. She smiled, I said hi, and then I moved along because I was focused on talking to people nearby and giving out books, doing my usual thing of greeting friends and settling in.
And here comes that inner voice again: the commentary, the impatience, the rhythm-breaker I slip into when I’m excited or nervous — the voice that says, Quit rambling, Jerry. What are you even saying next? Does this help? Does this break up the monotony of your boring-ass life? I hear it every time I get hyped like this. The truth is, tonight wasn’t monotonous at all. It was actually interesting, far more interesting than I expected, and the excitement still hasn’t worn off. You can probably tell.
I started talking to a guy who immediately launched into a story about a former coworker who had murdered someone and ended up on death row. From there he pivoted into his web design business, marketing strategies, and all the AI tools he was experimenting with. I got him talking, which is one of my favorite things to do when someone actually has interesting shit to say. And he did have interesting shit to say. I had him rolling for so long that the woman he came with eventually wandered off because he was so locked in on our conversation. After that, I made my way around to the other people nearby and probably met ten or twenty new people throughout the night. It was one of those evenings where conversations just kept opening up in every direction.
Eventually we all shifted toward the kirtan ceremony — singing, chanting, the whole thing — and I sat down thinking, All right, let’s see what this is. My mind was immediately bitchy and whiny. I looked around and decided every woman was already with somebody, so there were no prospects. I told myself I was wasting my time. I didn’t even like guitar-based music. The whole setup felt pretentious to me, and the cacao ceremony sounded like bullshit. I sat there mentally rolling my eyes and muttering internally about how none of this was going to be fun and how there weren’t any single girls anyway. I stayed through all of it, irritated and restless.
I sat alone off to the right of the stage, leaning against a tree. Most people were arranged on blankets in a square in front of the performers, but I hadn’t brought one, so the tree became my seat. I was wearing this silver shirt covered in sparkly sequins — I basically looked like a disco ball — and the sequins kept catching on the bark every time I moved. A friend sat in front of me with her boyfriend, while another friend’s partner was actually up on stage playing music. I tried to convince myself to relax and enjoy it. You get to listen to his music. Just take it in. It’s fine.
Something shifted during the ceremony. In the beginning, I was begrudgingly participating, mumbling the chants and barely moving my mouth: Om shita bida whatever. I kept telling myself, Just say the damn words. Try a little. You came out here on a Saturday night, you’re not being a total loser tonight, so just go along with it. My mind kept wandering — I even caught myself thinking about inviting someone to the violin thing at my yoga studio the next day because that would be a panty-dropper — but I pulled myself back, reminding myself not to skip ahead.
Halfway through the kirtan, the whole thing started to feel different. I surprised myself by actually getting into it. I found a rhythm in the repetition, in the vibrations of the chanting: Om shanti, om shanti, om shanti. I stood up. I danced. I let the music move through me even though a part of me still wanted to mock it. It occurred to me that someone reading this someday might find it hilarious or even fascinating, like, How did I go this long without discovering Jerry Banfield? This is incredible material. Then the voice in my head jabbed back: Are you really going to keep patting yourself on the back? Is this comedy, or is this your life? Probably a little of both.
Regardless of the inner commentary, something inside me finally loosened. I felt open again. I even thought, Maybe there actually is a hot single girl here. Maybe you don’t know everything, Jerry. Maybe something is unfolding that you can’t see yet. I pushed myself to stop judging, stop scanning the room for flaws, and get out of my head. So I stood up, let the chanting fill me, and got my ass out there to dance.
After kirtan, the dance portion kicked off, and the DJ turned out to be hot — a touring DJ from out of state — and completely my type. She played music I could actually get into. Because I don’t saturate myself with nonstop music anymore, the whole thing hit differently. When you put me in front of real dance music now, especially when I’m not listening to Deadmau5 every day or making my own tracks, it feels fresh. I haven’t heard music like this in a while, and I was ready to move. So I went out onto the dance floor.
While I was dancing, I noticed a friend’s friend the woman I met locking eyes with me and smiling, and that stopped me for a second. Shit—what’s happening here? She didn’t give off “I came here with a boyfriend” vibes. The way she looked at me felt like anything but that, unless it was some kind of I’m trying to cheat vibe, which didn’t seem likely. Either way, it needed further investigation. She kept glancing at me, and we exchanged some solid eye contact on the dance floor. We were both moving — asses shaking, legs going, my arms in the air, standing on one leg with one arm up and the other down, doing whatever my body felt like doing. I was dancing all over the place, just letting it rip. Balls flying around in my pants, sequins shining like a glitter bomb. Pure chaos in the best way.
Something interesting happened about an hour in. The DJ kept the energy high, the music was pounding, she was dancing at her booth, and I was out there losing my mind on the floor. By this point, the woman I met had looked at me enough times that I felt like she had done her part. In the way I see things at the moment, women send signals — subtle or obvious — and it’s up to us as men to notice and decide whether to approach. She had sent the signals, and I felt hooked. Completely locked onto her. I couldn’t pay attention to anyone else. I maneuvered around the dance floor so I could get behind her and watch her dance, because I suddenly couldn’t care less about anyone else out there. All I cared about was the woman I met. Then I started wondering what the hell I was supposed to do about it. The energy was strong, and I could feel it, but it’s not like dancing automatically turns into anything. I started getting frustrated, thinking, Okay, is this going to be another night where I go home without a number? Does she have a boyfriend? What is happening here?
And then — I swear this happened — the power went out. The music cut, lights died, everything just shut off. If you’ve read I Was Famous on the Internet, you know I’m already convinced I knocked out the internet with my mind at least once. Tonight felt like the same thing. I’m telling you, it happened the exact moment I needed something to shift. I mentally said, Thank you, like someone or something had just given me an opening.
When the power went out, I approached her. She had already been smiling at me on the dance floor, and honestly it had been a long time since anyone hot looked at me like that. I started talking to her and asked the obvious question. I told her I hadn’t seen her arrive with anyone and asked if she came by herself. She said yes. I said I did too. Then I asked why she would come alone to something like this, whether she had anyone she was dating. She said no, that she wasn’t available right now and wasn’t dating. I told her the same — that I wasn’t dating either, that I hadn’t even finished my divorce yet.
The music kicked back on after we had talked for maybe five minutes, and the moment it did, everything in me shifted. I was done. The dance party no longer mattered. The woman I met had completely derailed the whole night for me — in the best and most maddening way. I didn’t want to dance anymore. I didn’t want to drift around the room pretending to enjoy myself. All I wanted was to talk to her. And I swear, if anyone else had walked up and started talking to her at that point, it would not have worked for me. We danced for maybe one song, maybe two, but I was barely in it. I was just waiting for a lull so I could pull her aside.
When the music dipped for a moment, I tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Listen, you ruined this dance party for me. I was having fun out there, but now you’ve caught my attention, and all I want to do is talk with you more. Can we get away and talk privately?” She said yes without hesitation. We stepped off the dance floor, and I thought, Hell yes, I’m finally putting these dating books into practice.
We sat down and started talking, and the more she spoke, the more I realized I genuinely liked her. She told me she wants kids someday, that she doesn’t have any yet, that she’s never been married. I immediately started trying to find things wrong with her — qualities or habits I could latch onto as reasons to walk away and get back on the dance floor. I was deliberately searching for red flags so I could ghost her and move on, as if that would make my life simpler. So I asked if she drinks. She said no. Then I asked if she smokes weed. She said rarely. I thought, All right, okay, that’s fine. She’s into plant medicine a little. She talked about eating healthy. Then she told me she’s a doctor. I thought, Shit. Okay. I’ve got a master’s degree. That counts for something. My excuses were getting thin.
A friend wandered back over, and I met her boyfriend — a man whose name I still couldn’t keep straight no matter how many times she said it. Either way, she was glowing about him. She had told me during the free life coaching session I gave her how important a relationship was to her, and she clearly meant it.
It was also obvious that a friend had set this whole thing up on purpose. She must have said good things about me to the woman I met before we ever met, because the woman I met was warm from the first hello. Not standoffish. Not guarded. She approached me like she already knew something reassuring, which made it easy.
A friend then guided us toward the fire because she wanted to hang out with us, and I had a moment of internal conflict — Bitch, I love you, but you are getting in the way right now. At the same time, I trusted the flow, so I let it unfold. The three of us sat by the fire, and I went all in. I was determined to make both of them laugh and keep the energy light. I talked absolute nonsense if that’s what it took, and the directness worked.
I even told them how I felt sitting here in my tiny two-bedroom, 720-square-foot house that’s scheduled to be knocked down — like the last person living inside a dying structure. Like driving a car right before it’s junked. I compared it to being born into an eighty-five-year-old’s body with only five years left, going straight from heaven into somebody who’s already almost done, and feeling cheated by the whole thing. I said all this to them exactly like that, and both of them were cracking up. I had them both fucked up with that analogy, and it landed exactly how I meant it to.
A friend eventually looked over and noticed this guy sitting alone by the fire with his shirt off, and I realized I needed to explain the whole shirt off situation because that moment had its own backstory. And somewhere in my head I started sounding like Kevin Hart, or at least I imagined I did — which, of course, triggered the inner voice calling me out: You’d like to think you sound like Kevin Hart, wouldn’t you? You don’t sound like Kevin Hart, bitch. The commentary never stops.
Earlier in the night, right before I talked to the woman I met, I had taken a break from the dance floor because I was getting overheated and way too wrapped up in my feelings. I needed to get my head straight. I could feel something happening, but I didn’t know what to do with it, so I told myself to go piss. It had been three or four hours since the last one anyway. I headed off and noticed a friend’s partner dancing with his shirt off. He’s a legitimately good-looking man, covered in tattoos, the kind of guy who pulls off the shirtless look effortlessly. I thought, Damn, he looks great right now. And honestly, my friend really did land herself a hot man, though she’s a dancer and a massage therapist, so she’s a catch herself. They match.
Seeing a friend’s partner shirtless made me want to take mine off too. I wanted to peacock a little, especially because I go to yoga every day with my shirt off anyway. But as I walked to the porta potty, I started overthinking it. You’re not taking your shirt off like that guy, the voice said. He looks better than you. He can take his shirt off. And then another voice fired back: Bitch, I go to yoga with my shirt off every day. I’m not hiding behind a costume. The debate in my head went back and forth—Don’t take it off, you weenie bitch—until I finally said, Fuck you, I’m taking my shirt off.
So I did. I walked back out there shirtless, ready to peacock, ready to show off, ready to look sexy. And honestly? It worked. I could feel the shift instantly, and I could tell the woman I met liked the confidence. I kept thinking, Thank God I chose confidence instead of being a weenie. I even remembered that old meme a streamer I used to watch would play — “You’re a dummy, bitch” — and laughed to myself about refusing to be that guy tonight. I play tennis, I eat clean, I go to yoga, I’ve got abs at forty-one years old. I look good. Why the hell wouldn’t I take my shirt off? Why keep living like a man afraid to be seen? I took it off and stepped fully into it.
And of course, once all that energy started moving, that’s when I ended up talking to the woman I met, which was the whole point of the tangent. Meanwhile another dude somewhere had his shirt off too, which made the whole thing funnier in hindsight. The tangent might seem ridiculous, but honestly it fits with everything else going on tonight.
So there I was talking to the woman I met by the fire while a friend spotted that lonely shirtless guy sitting by himself and clearly decided to help move things along for me. She wanted to give me space, and the second she locked onto that guy, she made her move. She walked right over to him and sat down, keeping him company for ten or twenty minutes while I kept talking to the woman I met without distraction.
The woman I met and I kept talking our asses off, slipping into these comfortable stretches of silence where we just looked at each other and smiled before drifting back into conversation again. I kept trying to figure out what was wrong with her, because it felt too easy, too natural, and I didn’t trust it. I even asked her straight up, “What are your issues? Just tell me now so neither of us wastes our time.” She and a friend both laughed at that. Then I asked for her birthday, even though the voice in my head kept screaming at me not to. Do not ask for her birthday, Jerry. Don’t do it. She’ll want yours and then she’ll know you’re forty-one. Don’t do it. But I asked anyway. She said she was twenty-nine. I told her I was forty-one and she did the math quickly, which impressed me. She told me she’s really good at math, and that was sexy to me. I love a girl who can do math. I damn near maxed the SAT in math, and in that moment part of me wanted to drop my balls on the metaphorical mic like an idiot. Then another part of me told me I was going too far with the stupid shit. You’re going to get a one-star review on this, Jerry. But hell, it wouldn’t be the first and it won’t be the last.
We kept talking until the sharing circle started up, and it immediately killed my buzz. Not the alcohol buzz I don’t have — the sober high of sitting with a beautiful girl who was clearly giving me every signal that she liked me. I had no idea what she would think in the morning, but in that moment I felt the connection. When the circle began, all I could think was, Fuck the sharing circle. I want to talk to the woman I met. That’s all I want. I even told her that: “I really want to talk to you. That’s all I care about right now.” She kind of wanted to stay for the circle, but she also got up, and we slipped away.
We found a bench eventually. I was playful the whole way there, because I’d read those three dating books — The Game by Neil Strauss (my massage therapist’s recommendation), Models by Mark Manson, and some other one called something like Dating Sucks, which I didn’t finish. But they all agreed: get physical early. Build comfort. So I made sure to keep touching her arm. I even remembered from massage school that the upper arm is called the humerus, so that’s what I touched — the area between the biceps and triceps, leaning toward the shoulder. Gentle touches, playful touches. At one point I grabbed her arm and shook her a little as I made a joke, and she laughed. The physicality opened things up.
As we walked, I told her playfully, “Give me your hand,” and she let me. I held her right hand in my left, but it didn’t quite feel right, so I switched to her other hand. And that felt good. It felt good to her too — I could tell. We sat down on the bench overlooking the water, and the whole scene felt absurdly romantic. The air, the reflections on the surface, the lingering sounds of the event behind us. I kept thinking, Your boy’s got it tonight. This is so romantic. This is unreal.
We kept talking, looking at the water, looking at each other, and I decided to stop dancing around the obvious. I told her, “You like me. You’re giving me all the signals.” She smiled at me and said, “Well… you’re not a loser.” I laughed. “You’re great at compliments, aren’t you?” I told her. “Wow. ‘You’re not a loser.’ I’m aware I’m not a loser.” But even with that awkward line, the softness in her eyes made it clear what she meant.
I told the woman I met that I’m often quick to disqualify people from getting close to me, because once someone gets inside my inner circle, it’s hard to get them out again. She nodded and said she wasn’t available to date right now, and I told her I wasn’t either. It felt honest. It felt easy. I said, “Cool, let me get your phone number. I want to meet up with you as soon as you’re available. We can grab tea. We can be friends. Being friends is good for me right now.” And it was true — I didn’t need to be fucking anyone right now. I didn’t even need the pressure of sexual momentum. And tonight worked precisely because she wasn’t available and I didn’t try to make out with her. Holding hands stayed in the safe zone — friends hold hands sometimes, and it didn’t cross any lines for either of us.
She said again that she wasn’t available, and I said, “Perfect. Let’s be not available together. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” But the truth underneath her words was obvious: she’s not unavailable in the emotional sense. She’s just not going to waste her time. She wants someone who is genuinely worth it. And I am worth it — maybe not specifically for her, but in general, I’m top-tier. I’m a hell of a catch. Then the mocking voice jumped in: That’s that bullshit, Jerry. But it isn’t bullshit. Deep down, I know my value.
The woman I met eventually said she was ready to go home, and that made sense — it was close to 11:30 p.m., and both of us had gotten there a little after six. I started imagining she’d worked all day, forgetting it was Saturday and she hadn’t worked at all. Then I realized I hadn’t “worked” either, unless you count dealing with divorce paperwork as work. My brain loves correcting itself in real time.
I walked her to her car, which felt like the right closing moment. She waited patiently while I packed up my ridiculous pile of belongings: the whole box of books I’d brought, the shirt and shoes I’d shed earlier, my keys, wallet, and phone piled up together like an invitation for someone to rob me blind. Anyone could have taken everything — my identity, my car, my whole life — and even my books. Nobody would take the books, Jerry. Maybe so. But I imagined it anyway: some random person driving off in my car with all my shit while I stood shirtless and shoeless in a glittering Halloween costume. Maybe the woman I met or some other girl would have driven me home. Maybe I would have ended up knocking on a neighbor’s door at midnight. Or walking into my ex-wife’s house and sleeping on her floor. More realistically, I probably would have just gone to my mom’s.
My mind riffed on all this while I walked with the woman I met, and then the part of me that narrates said, Get to the point, Jerry. But the point is that I walked her out, said goodbye, and felt the rare satisfaction of a night that unfolded exactly the way it needed to. Not rushed. Not sexualized. Just connection — clean, warm, grounded — the kind that doesn’t come around often.
I walked the woman I met out to her car, and she turned out to have a Toyota just like mine. I liked that. We exchanged numbers by starting with her phone first. She handed it to me without hesitation, and the moment I had it in my hands, something in me wanted to be funny. I asked, “You want me to just send myself a text?” She nodded, so I typed out, Oh my God, I had such a great time with you tonight, and hit send. She laughed, and I told her I knew she wanted to say something like that anyway. The whole exchange felt easy, natural, flirty, and warm.
And then the narrator in my head chimed in again: All the women listening are probably wet right now, aren’t they, Jerry? No. I doubt anyone is wet right now. Maybe one. Maybe the woman I met. But the whole moment of walking her to her car really did feel intimate and surprisingly mutual. She had her hands full with a bunch of stuff, and I figured I’d just hug her and send her on her way. Instead, she actually encouraged me to walk with her, which felt great — especially given the contrast to something that would happen eight hours later. But that’s sarcasm for another chapter.
As we walked, I asked her what she liked in a man. She said she wanted a man who respects her. I told her, “Your boy has that down.” Respect is something I take seriously. Then, with perfect timing, she looked at me and said she wanted a man who carries things for her. All I had on me was a box of books, which I had already offered to give her earlier. I held it out and said, “You want to carry this too?” and she laughed again. She must have laughed a hundred times at the shit I said tonight — which is probably a hundred more laughs than I’ll get from anyone listening to this later. Though someone probably just laughed at that line, so suck it.
All this reminded me of something I haven’t written about yet. If you’ve read the diaries, you’ll know this isn’t in The Kind Divorce but in the book that comes after — the story about what happened at tennis. A few weeks ago, while reading Neil Strauss’s The Game and thinking about peacocking, this beautiful girl from the other court walked her bike past me. I asked her how the women’s clinic was, and she said it was fun. Then I said — and I quote — “I wish I could come.” The second it left my mouth, I roasted myself internally. That’s the best you’ve got? A Freudian slip? Get some better material. I lost my tennis match against a friend after that. I’d been winning until that moment. Of course I wished I could come — both meanings at once. I cringed for an hour.
The woman I met said something tonight along those lines, something that mirrored that moment but flipped it. Her phrasing echoed that same accidental sexual undertone, and my eyebrows shot up. Instead of being the one saying it, I was the one hearing it. That felt like a damn good sign.
Back in the present, she reiterated that she wanted a man who carries things for her, so I took her backpack and walked her the rest of the way to her car. We stopped at the driver’s side door, and I told her I’d text her tomorrow. I said I wanted to hang out with her again as soon as she was available and that we didn’t need to waste time messaging — we could just meet in person. I gave her a warm hug goodnight, watched her get in, and then walked to my own car feeling lit up from the inside. Then I got in my Toyota, closed the door, and called my mom.
Man, I just feel so good. Meeting the woman I met was incredible. It wasn’t just that she was attractive — it was the validation that here was a woman who, in so many ways, matched what I’ve been looking for. Someone who might actually be compatible with me, someone who gave clear signals that she liked me. Even with her saying she wasn’t available, she still held my hand, still talked openly with me about deep and direct things. I even joked with her about the age difference. I asked her birthday and realized I’m a little over eleven years older than she is. Or maybe twelve. If you truncate, it’s eleven; if you round, it’s twelve. And then another part of my brain chimed in: What the fuck is truncate? So I explained — truncate means you just drop the last digit. Eleven truncated becomes ten. Does that make sense? In some things, yes. If something was 100.1 and you truncated the decimal, it would go to 100 whether it started at .1 or .9. Maybe I taught you something new; you definitely didn’t know what truncated meant before this.
Anyway, if we truncate my age difference, I’m eleven years older. I asked her if a guy a decade older was a deal breaker. She said no. That shot electricity straight through me. I probably woke the neighbors up yelling about it. Your boy being eleven years older wasn’t a deal breaker. Oh fuck.
And I’ll tell you something else — I was thinking about how much I love my ex-wife for giving me the chance to have a moment like this, for freeing me to stand by a fire with a girl like the woman I met who might end up meaning something to me. Boys — because let’s be honest, I don’t think any women are listening to this — she is so hot, and so compatible, and so clearly into me. In a way that feels surreal.
But the most amazing part is the validation. I’m going to rant about this in my dating book tomorrow — or maybe this is the dating book. The validation felt so good. Having that kind of connection stone-cold sober, no alcohol, no drugs, no making out, no shortcuts. Just conversation. Directness. Playfulness. Laughing. Holding hands. Sitting on a bench looking over the water. It was beautiful. That validation — knowing that whether it’s her or someone like her, there is a woman out there who wants what I want and will be very into me in the same way I’m into her — that meant everything.
And then there’s the second part: I love how I behaved tonight. That’s something you can hold onto no matter what happens later. I fell in love with my own behavior. If nothing else comes from this, I still get to keep that. When I saw her on the dance floor, I didn’t just stand there like I used to in college, frozen and hoping something would magically happen. You’re a dummy, bitch. That version of me would have stayed stuck. Tonight, I made things happen. I swear I made that power go out with my mind — delusional or not, I felt it. I wanted an opening, and the music cut instantly. And then I acted on it.
I interrupted her dancing and said, “Let’s talk.” That was a bold move — the confidence of assuming she wanted to talk with me. And I was right. I pulled her out of the sharing circle too. “Let’s get out of here and talk, just you and me.” I didn’t care about hearing the rest of the group share, even though we’d all just experienced this ceremony together. I only cared about hearing her. That focus, that directness, that clarity — that makes a girl feel special. It shows that she matters enough that I’m willing to leave the entire group just to give her my full attention and ask for hers.
I loved seeing how I behaved tonight. I loved who I was in that moment. And whatever happens next, I get to keep that.
When she first said she wasn’t available to date, I felt a little deflated, but the more I sat with it, the more I realized I’m not actually available to date either. What availability do I realistically have right now? I see my ex-wife multiple times a day. We’re not divorced yet, even though I did the rest of the paperwork today and scanned it to my ex-wife. I even started the divorce parenting course, which is already dragging on too long. I don’t have true dating availability. What I need is to be friends with a woman right now. I don’t need to be hooking up, and I don’t need to be jumping into another relationship. I need to take my time, get to know someone, build something slow and real. That’s my ideal scenario too.
And it felt great to meet someone who matched that pace. In some ways, her saying she wasn’t available was a test. If you fail the test, you hear “not available” and immediately give up because you wanted something quick. But I didn’t hear it that way. The real message is in the combination of words and behavior. If she had said she wasn’t available and given me zero positive signals, that would be one thing. But she was giving me every positive signal while saying she wasn’t available. What I heard underneath her words was: I want you to work for this. I want you to prove that you’re worth dating. I want to take it slow. I want friendship first. Show me who you are before you get anything else from me. And that’s exactly what I need right now. I need to talk, to build a friendship, to see that we genuinely love each other’s presence, and only then work out sex, family, money, and the rest.
I loved how present I was tonight. I paid attention. I stayed tuned in. I went for joke after joke, and they mostly landed. I don’t think she failed to laugh at a single thing I said when I was trying to be funny. Just like I’m doing right here, I leaned into every opportunity to make her smile. And she laughed so much. It felt so good because she was sober. That’s the part that matters most. With drinking, everything becomes unreliable — fake chemistry, fake confidence, fake attraction. But since she wasn’t drinking, everything I saw was real. There’s even a chance she wakes up tomorrow and likes me more, because she’ll have time to reflect on how strong our connection felt. And the fact that she’s not dating anybody else? Oh shit. That’s huge.
I called my mom on the drive home and told her how much I loved the way I handled myself tonight. It was validation and it was self-respect. That’s a guaranteed win. I’m so excited to see where this goes. I’m excited to have a real chance with someone new for the first time since 2011 — and with a woman who is so incredibly smart and so incredibly hot. Smart enough to become a doctor of physical therapy. Sexy as hell. Sharp, present, witty. And I’m thinking, I’m the man for this girl. I’ve got a brain. I’ve got a sense of humor. I’ve got a body. I’ve got the whole package — and tonight proved it.
I’m mature too. Try finding a man with a brain, a body, and this level of emotional maturity who actually wants kids. A man who’s respectful on top of all that. We’ll ask my ex-wife about this afterward, the inner voice says. We’ll listen to my ex-wife’s motherfucking book and see if she thinks your ass is respectful. Then another voice, in my ex-wife’s grandmother tone: Jerry, I’m a grandmother and I can’t handle one more fuck. My brain is a circus.
Speaking of which — did I tell you my friend told me about this couple he knows? I probably said it yesterday, but I’m saying it again. He knows this guy in his eighties who was having sex every day with a woman in her nineties — ninety-three. Every day. He was eighty-six, she was ninety-three, and they were still fucking daily. Then he broke up with her. He told my friend, “I can’t be with a woman that old.” And now his next girlfriend is ninety. I’m like, shit. But honestly, it’s awesome. Don’t start gagging about how disgusting it is — it’s amazing that a ninety-three-year-old woman still wants sex every day. I want to meet her. I bet she’s vibrant as hell. I’m sad she might not be catching dick anymore after that breakup, because at ninety-three your dating pool is mostly younger men since everyone else is dead. And yes, I’m counting this as a win because I made myself laugh.
What I keep circling back to is how much I love how I behaved tonight. That’s a guaranteed win — being proud of your own behavior. That’s something no one can take away. And while I’m going to be blunt here — I hope the woman I met becomes wife number two — I can hold that lightly. It would be hilarious if the people reading this already know whether she is or isn’t, depending on when you’re reading. But as of right now, I hope she’s my second wife. She’s amazing. And at the same time, I know we’d need more time before marriage and kids and everything that comes with that.
Still, tonight left me excited to be me. I’m proud of myself. I’m proud of how I handled everything. I saw a girl who was interested and I didn’t freeze. First, I showed up. I showed up somewhere brand new. I paid $66 for a membership — which is nothing, basically charity at that point — and walked into a space where I didn’t know many people. I did new things. I stayed open. I enjoyed myself. And when I noticed a hot girl who was clearly into me and who I was clearly into, I went for it. I didn’t hide. I didn’t shrink. I overcame every little mental objection all night long.
Earlier, I had planned to go to an AA party, but I couldn’t get in the gate — a real gated community, with a guard and a list. My name wasn’t on it because I didn’t know I was supposed to RSVP. They sent me away. So instead, I went to the spiritual community early. And something about that made me proud too. I used to be late to everything, but tonight I showed up early, talked to people, connected, brought energy. And listen to me now — it’s 12:42 a.m., and I haven’t been up this late in ages. Probably not since my ex-wife and I had that last big divorce talk. I haven’t been up this late with this much energy in a long time.
That’s what life feels like when you’re actually in it — when passion wakes you up. When something stimulates you so deeply that you don’t want to turn off. This girl stimulated me with conversation, with her mind, with her body, with the simplicity of watching her dance. At a certain point, standing behind her on the dance floor, I realized we needed to get off the dance floor because I was just staring at her. I needed to talk. I needed to connect.
Talking to someone is almost better than fucking because talking is where you find out what you actually need to know. Look at my marriage — we talked far more than we ever had sex. Conversation is the real foundation. Sex should be good, sure, but talking is what you’re going to do for most of your life with a partner. So tonight, I’m grateful most of all for the conversation, for the depth, for how direct and honest it felt. And I’m grateful I didn’t get discouraged by the stupid gate at the AA party. I just said, Fine, I’ll go to the spiritual community early. No big deal. And that decision probably changed everything.
Showing up early put me in position. I walked in without distraction, without being flustered, and a friend arrived not long after and gave me a big hug — which was great because she hadn’t responded to my last couple of messages. Then she introduced me to her friend the woman I met, and everything else unfolded from there. The entire night blossomed out of that one moment: the timing, the placement, the openness. It all lined up because I bothered to show up early.
Earlier in the day — and holy shit, it’s been forty-two minutes of recording and I still haven’t covered the whole day — but today really was packed. And no, this is not going to turn into a one-to-one ratio of recording minutes to lived minutes. We’re almost done. But first, I want to tell you what happened this morning.
I got up and walked down the street to hang out with the kids. Snuggled them. Kicked the soccer ball with my son. Then I went to yoga. There’s a girl there named a woman from yoga. A week ago, she was the one I mentioned in the diary — the girl I said good morning to as we walked in, back when I was listening to those dating books telling me to start making approaches, at least say hi, start conversations. Practice on everybody, not just the hot girls. Crank up the friendliness. So I said hi to her a week ago, and she barely responded. It wasn’t rude — just quiet, in her own space.
Today she walked into class, and at first I didn’t even fully recognize her until she came up to me and said, “Hey, I’m sorry I was rude to you last time.” I told her I didn’t notice any rudeness. She said she had been deep in her own head that day. And I was genuinely impressed — that level of self-awareness is rare. And yes, this story has a point.
We finished the yoga class — a yoga instructor led a strong power flow, a solid workout — and afterward I decided I was going to ask a woman from yoga if I could walk her to her car. I wanted to see if there was any availability there, any chemistry, any possibility. When class ended, she came out of the studio with her friend, the same friend she’d met the week before. I realized I needed to isolate her somehow, but timing wasn’t on my side. Still, I approached. I said, “Hey, you really got me curious. I’d love to talk more. Can I walk you to your car?” She said no, that she was with her friend. Fair enough.
So I kept it short. I told her I wanted her to know how impressed I was with her level of self-awareness — how rare it is for someone to reflect on their behavior and how it affects others. She thanked me, and that was that. I walked out, waved at her in the parking lot when she and her friend passed by, and drove home. And even though some people would label that a rejection, I felt proud. Proud that I approached her. Proud that I tried. A woman from yoga is beautiful, and I took a shot. To me, the real loss would have been not trying at all, then spending a week wondering if I should have said something. Because I tried, and she declined, I knew immediately: she wasn’t interested. No ambiguity. No wondering.
That mindset carried into tonight. I was determined not to wonder about the woman I met. I wanted to know as much as I could, right now. And I kept expecting to uncover something that would end the excitement — that she didn’t want kids, or that her lifestyle was incompatible, or that I’d feel the energy drop after fifteen minutes. I expected a moment where I’d say, “Okay, it was nice meeting you, but we’re not a match.” But there wasn’t one. Every new thing I learned made me more excited. The compatibility felt real.
And that’s the point. I’m proud of my behavior — the one thing I have complete control over. I’m glad I went for it this morning. I’m glad I went for it tonight. And tonight came with a different outcome: I got a phone number. I got a woman’s number whom I’m genuinely interested in for the first time since 2011. Because your boy wasn’t collecting numbers while he was with my ex-wife. So yes — it’s been a long time.
What a day. I had Ethiopian food — my ex-wife got it from the market again, and when I told the woman I met that, she said, “Your ex-wife does that for you? That is so sweet.” And I said, “I know. She’s incredible.” I even told the woman I met how my ex-wife wants to babysit the children I have with my next partner someday. That’s the kind of woman she is. I told the woman I met how grateful I am that my ex-wife and I are ending our marriage this way — peaceful, loving, supportive — because it sets me up well for whatever comes next.
So yes, what a day. I’m so grateful for how everything unfolded. I finished my part of the divorce paperwork. I started the parenting course. I got rejected by a gorgeous girl at yoga who still went out of her way to talk to me. And then I talked for almost two hours with a brilliant, beautiful woman who seems highly compatible with me — and I left with her phone number. Holy shit. What a day. What a day. Now… is this shit finally over?
If you connect with how I live and think, you can follow the rest of my days on YouTube in my Dating playlist.