The Mistakes I Should Be Done With (Surfer Dude, Part 1)

We planned this trip for months.

Now it looks like I won’t even get to see him.

I’m on a plane—next to a guy who smells like stale hospital sheets—flying 16 hours to a 30-year-old surf instructor who owns no pants and crashes at a hostel.

He likes my body, but not me.

What is it with me and Olympic-level love efforts?

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She cupped her head in her hand, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re dating a homeless guy…?”

She looked up at me, reflecting my questionable decision.

“I guess,” I smiled, trying to make light of the whole thing. And honestly—it was kind of funny when you put it like that.

The first guy I chose to date after my divorce was a 30-year-old surf instructor who currently borrowed a bed at a hostel and owned neither long pants nor a bank account.

I had a crush on him. And I was deeply in love with the lifestyle he represented.

I had already begun fantasizing about a life surrounded by jungle sounds and sea breeze. In my mind, we were basically married—him teaching my daughters how to surf and open coconuts.

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Copenhagen or Coconut Dreams

My friend couldn’t believe it.

My overpriced, tiny rental apartment in Copenhagen—where I had barely settled in post-divorce—served as a painful backdrop. A reminder of my obligations and the vastly different life I actually lived. One that maybe didn’t have room for a Costa Rican surfer-dude.

“I’m going to see him again,” I said, still smiling, hoping it would soften the judgmental blow I knew was coming.

She sighed and cupped her head again, shaking it gently. She had already voiced several concerns, and this latest revelation—his homelessness—was the final straw.

And she was right.

Of course.

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A Hopeful Romantic

I am a hopeless romantic.

No—scratch that. I’m not hopeless at all.

I’m hopeful.

When it comes to romance, I hope to a degree that pushes me to fly. Move. Take jobs. Beg. Run. Swim. Surf. Climb. Ski. Take tango lessons. Read obscure books. Sign up for Tantra classes—all to make it work.

And just to be clear: this is not a poetic exaggeration or a random list. I have done every. single. one. of those things.

When it comes to romance, I tend to have little—often no—self-respect.

It’s in stark contrast to the person I am when I’m not infected with the romantic flu.

When I married, I thought—finally—I’d never again have to navigate situations where my heart would ache, break, or crumble the way it had so many times before.

I thought I’d never again find myself in that familiar place where men sensed my lack of boundaries and walked right over them.

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Cherry on Top

Turns out, I still haven’t drawn new lines in the sand.

And of course, I picked a guy who literally lives by the beach—a 16-hour plane ride away. A guy who likes my body but doesn’t want anything serious. A guy I have almost nothing in common with.

And yet… here I am.

Boxed in.

Window seat.

On a plane.

Next to a middle-aged man who smells like old cigarettes and stale hospital sheets. The woman in front of me has reclined her seat so far back I could probably count her grey hairs.

And the cherry on top?

I’m not even going to see surfer-dude. Yes—I’m back to my pre-married self:

I’ve pleaded.

I’ve suggested.

I’ve planned.

I’ve offered.

I’ve now also cried.

And cursed myself.

Because it turns out he’s just not that into it.

Don’t get me wrong.

I get offers.

I have “interested parties.”

Men glance at me. Compliment me.

I definitely have options.

But I’m very picky.

When I find a guy who can give me the worst possible time?

That’s when I make my move.

Obviously.

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Wide Open for Love Business

But as much as it hurts—and as much as I feel ashamed of who I become when I get bitten by the love bug, on those rare occasions—I still can’t close my heart.

Because… I really don’t want to. My heart is so open.

I didn’t close it the first time it broke, when my middle school love (not crush) kissed my friend and I thought I was going to die. It didn’t close when my now ex-husband left me the first time and I thought I would never love again. And it didn’t close when he left me the second time and I was convinced there would be no smiles or laughs left in life.

So, in spite of being imprisoned in a metal container in the clouds for another seven hours, I will not close my heart. In spite of being ditched by a homeless surfer-dude, I will not close my heart. In spite of the expensive week ahead—one that will not only hurt my bank account but also my ego—I will not close my heart. In spite of what this trip now feels like—a parade of loneliness, fear, embarrassment, and maybe even desperation—I can only stay open.

Open to love. Open to possibilities. Open to faith.

Sure, I have doubts. I wobble. But I always find my balance again.

My name is Sisse, and I am a hopeful romantic.

And someday I will find that romantic love. That equal partnership. That magical guy I know is out there.

Maybe I still have some cringy moments left in me…

But by God—hopefully not too many.

To be continued …