My relationships never seem to last more than a year before they fizzle out and become stale like an old, forgotten can of pop. Sean was no different.
Sean and I met online, like most new-age romance stories. There was no spark on a dance floor, or our eyes meeting in a crowded room. We met virtually, where our preconceived notions about each other could run rampant based on our dating profiles.
I don't exactly remember what his profile said, but I do recall that it said he picked his username by mashing the keyboard because he felt like trying to come up with some clever username was a waste of time. He had one photo, that gloriously displayed his Burt Reynolds mustache, his Rayban glasses, and an unknown ethnicity that I didn't question at the time.
Our conversation was brief, and he definitely mentioned something about eating babies, particularly of the squid kind. We agreed to meet at a local cafe in a hipster part of town. We hit it off smashingly and started seeing each other fairly regularly.
Fast forward ten months.
I was trying desperately to like hiking, his favourite hobby; likely because it was free, he was cheap, and his only income was from photography. I even bought my first pair of hiking shoes to show how dedicated to liking this hobby of his I was. However, he never took any interest in my hobbies and it felt like he only showed up to my roller derby games because he felt obligated too.
At this point, we had semi-completed about four hikes in Alberta. I say semi-completed, because I would usually be spent and wheezing about half way up, and he would take pity on me and suggest we turn around. I would take his suggestion only when we made it about three-quarters of the way up.
As someone who grew up in the wild prairies of Saskatchewan, I was not well-versed in climbing and scaling the mountains of Alberta's Rockies. He was the first person that ever took me hiking. I would later learn, after the relationship ended, that all the hikes we semi-completed were rated "difficult" by most Google standards.
The last hike we ever completed together was out at Johnston Canyon.
I had suggested one Friday afternoon that we should go hiking tomorrow, letting him use his discretion to pick an easier hike. I had, at some point, suggested that the reason I couldn't complete a hike was that they were too advanced for me and that he should keep that in mind when picking out the next one to scale.
We walked the slippery bridges out to see the falls, with my faithful furry companion, Monster. He snapped some photos of me holding him in front of the falls. Both of us weren't looking at the camera.
On our way back, he decided that we should also go see the ink pots instead of just going back to the city. I was not prepared for this decision. I had not prepared for a full-day of hiking. Quite frankly, I was satisfied with what we had completed and wanted to trek back to the vehicle to go home.
I moaned the whole time but not once did he suggest we turn around. But we made it to the end, and I was extremely disappointed that he had forced me to do this. We ate some terribly soggy sandwiches he had prepared after looking at the unremarkable ink pots. He took in the view while I couldn't have been less moved by the mountains. We eventually made our way back to his forest green VW, where I slept for most of the car ride home.
This total trip took about six hours. When we got back to my place, I asked him if he wanted to go grab some food. The next words out of his mouth were, "I don't think I want to do this anymore. I don't want to date you anymore. I've never done this before so I don't know what to do right now. I really like you, I think you're a great person, but I don't see this working out long-term."
I am still trying to give away my hiking boots.
Created: May 13, 2017sourhumanbeing Document Media