My most recent “relationship” ended with a whale emoticon. Yes. An emoticon. Of a whale.

His name was Bali Boy and he didn’t believe in gender stereotypes, which also meant he was probably a feminist, definitely a liberal, and certainly listened to enlightening podcasts. So what I am trying to say (as sarcastically as I possibly can in writing) is that, Bali Boy was soooooo connected. I mean, his third eye was like totally open.                                    

Now, those of you out there that know me might be thinking that this meditating liberal, Buddhist psychiatrist, surfing, yogi, would be my perfect match. That we would hold hands and connect heart chakras and our inner children would be best of friends. And to be perfectly honest, I thought so too. Which is why on our first date, when he began talking to me about his time spent 1. In a cult and 2. Dating the guru’s daughter, I let it slide. Because 1. He wasn’t in said cult anymore and 2. It’s not like he was dating the guru herself. And 3. The universe brought us together….right? I mean, by the end of our first date I was sure we had some sort of out of this world energetic past life karmic thing happening, where maybe we were once married in medieval times and he saved me from being burned at the stake, and now our souls came back to meet once again at a Brooklyn bar. A bit dramatic I know. But Bali Boy felt the same, and told me so via text after date number two.

And I was into him. I mean, my heart chakra totally connected to his heart chakra. Or so I thought.

The first night he stayed over, as we lay in bed, he whispered, “I can see my inner child. He is hiding under your desk.” Now first of all, I think it’s fantastic that he can see his inner child. But what the fuck is he doing under my desk? Way to ruin the mood Bali Boy. Gross. Now what are we supposed to do in bed with your inner child cowering under the desk starring at us. So, I say something super introspective, like “Ummmm…don’t you think you should ask him to leave?” Whoa! Bad idea bear, because Bali Boy, who was allll about connection, emotion, and intimacy (yuck), decided to communicate with his mini self. And by that I mean, he began to talk to his inner child, while we were in bed together. The last thing you ever want when a boy stays over in your bed is to imagine their five-year-old self there with you. I mean, there are so many levels of wrong there. So many levels.       

Bali Boy was totally into his inner child. So into him that I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had walked over to my bookcase and grabbed, “Oh The Places You’ll Go” to read aloud to his mini self. But alas, it seemed he would save Reading Rainbow for next time, because after their chat he was “exhausted” and ready to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I rolled over to find he wasn’t in bed. It was early, maybe 6am, and with just my left eye open (or maybe it was my third eye), I saw him seated on the floor. His eyes were closed, his hands on his lap in meditation pose, and his back straight. So straight that it frightened me to even look at him. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait for his imaginary meditation bell to go off before talking, but I felt awkward so I blurted out, “Morning. You really know how to sit upright.” He grinned with his eyes still closed and then reached his arms high up to the sky and let out an “ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” in an “I’m so relaxed,” sort of way. And then finished it off with, “I want a soy chai latte.”

Now, I was taken aback. Maybe not so much by the obscure straightness of his back, or his 6am meditation pose, OR his emphatic morning ‘ahhhhhhhhhhhhh’ but by the fact that he really reallllly needed a soy chai latte at 6am.

The icing on the cake was when he spotted my brand new juicer out of the corner of his eye. His face lit up like I hadn’t seen before and with a huge smile he exclaimed, “Is that a juicer?!?!” Of course it’s a fucking juicer I told him. And then I sent him out to get his soy chai latte.

And there it was. I was in spiritual; I’m “dating” a Buddhist psychiatrist, totally connected to his inner child, heaven. Which was turning out to be not all heart chakras and happy faces.

But let’s get to the ever looming question. Why call him Bali Boy? I’m so glad you asked. Because after weeks of early morning “ahhhhhh’s” Bali Boy wanted to have some real life talk. “So, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m moving to Bali to surf, meditate, and yoga…you know, to Eat, Pray, Love.” He actually said the words Eat, Pray, Love. Which kinda made me wanna barf. Here I was with the man I had been waiting for all this time (or so I thought), and he was leaving me to Eat, Pray, fucking love on some deserted beach in Bali?! And I thought, oh no. Oh hell no am I going to be James Franco sitting on the stoop while Julia Roberts gallivants off to Bali to find herself. Oh hell no. And I began to wonder, had Bali Boy known all this time? Had he seduced me with his soy chai latte’s and Indian chants just to get some sugar before he left to Lama himself on a Balian beach? Well ladies and gentleman…we may never know the truth…but seeing my track record… all signs point to yes.

But alas, Bali boy and his spirit convinced me “not to over-analyze, be in the present moment and enjoy the time we have left together.” Hmmmm…

I became suspect of Bali Boy’s motives. And all his spiritual intricacies that once were seemingly sooo connected, then seemingly sort of annoying, were now seemingly pretty freaking ridiculous. And I began to listen to the things he said more carefully. “If I know one thing in life, it’s about interpersonal dynamics. In a relationship at least one person needs to be sane. If we are both crazy, it can never work. And I’m not crazy.”  

And there we have it. Now that Bali Boy had successfully wooed me with his chakra alignment, he began to school me in the art of becoming his devotee. And what he was saying in layman’s terms was that, I was crazy. Now, this comment, coming from a man who had dated the guru’s daughter in one of America’s notorious cults, is a bit ominous. And it finally occurred to me that he was trying to end it before he Bali’d, under the guise of me being a bit insane, when in fact it was pretty apparent that he had both arms swinging from the crazy tree.

So, let’s revert back to the facts. Bali Boy was 1. In a cult, 2. Working in a psychiatric ward, 3. Keeping his inner child under my desk, 4. Meditating with a very unnatural straight back, and 5. Could not start his day without an “Ahhhhhh. I want a soy chai latte.”

And here he was calling ME crazy. And I realized, in my moment of spiritual clarity, with my third eye like totally open, that the universe was sending me a sign. If I was not planning to Eat, Pray, and Devote myself to Bali Boy, I should just let him get his sugar before he puts on his monk robe and deems himself enlightened.

Right before Bali Boy left he gifted me his most prized possession: an orchid he had kept next to his bed for the past year. “It’s the most meaningful thing in my life,” he whispered. And I of course accepted. The day Bali Boy flew off, his orchid began to turn yellow and wilt. I don’t think it was lacking Bali Boy’s divine energy, I think my spirit guides killed it off in an effort to remind me that he was not the one.

When Bali Boy landed in Bali he sent me one last text. “I think you are a cool person. Bali is beautiful.” At the end of the text was an emoticon. Of a whale. Which I’m pretty sure was my parting gift…from his inner child.