Butterflies Land on Tuesdays

A strange thing happens when you are 46 and single.

People begin treating your relationship status like an unsolved cold case.

“How are you still single?”

“There has to be something wrong with you.”

“You just haven’t met the right person.”

As if somewhere out there is a woman wandering the aisles of Target, coffee in hand, mildly annoyed at modern dating, and somehow we just keep missing each other near the seasonal candles.

For context, I have been divorced for twenty years. Long enough that saying it out loud feels less like a life update and more like historical trivia. Since then? Hints of brief relationships. A few almosts. A few moments where it felt like maybe. Enough to know I still believe deeply in love while also realizing I may not be particularly good at modern dating.

Or perhaps modern dating is just bad.

That feels at least equally possible.

Spend enough time on dating apps and you realize we are all mildly insane now. People speak almost entirely in vibes.

“The energy was off.”

“I just was not feeling it.”

“We didn’t vibe.”

Vibes.

Apparently entire futures now hinge on whether somebody made us feel sparkly over tacos.

And look, I get it. Chemistry matters. Attraction matters. Romance matters. I am a poet, unfortunately, which means I came factory-installed with unrealistic romantic software and an unhealthy appreciation for grand feelings. I love deep conversations, accidental hand touches, lingering glances, and the “how did we end up talking for four hours?” kind of connection.

But somewhere along the way, we started treating chemistry like the primary measurement of relationship success. That feels a bit like choosing a lifelong teammate based entirely on how fun they are during the highlight reel. Great for the first chapter. Not always enough for the whole book.

The people most obsessed with vibes often seem to be chasing a cinematic version of love where everything feels electric all the time, emotionally thrilling but never inconvenient. Then the warm fuzzies dip for a few weeks and suddenly it becomes:

“I just do not know…”

“The spark feels different…”

“What if my soulmate is one swipe away?”

Which, respectfully, may explain why some people become incredibly experienced daters and accidentally lifelong singles.

Cough cough.

Tim Ferriss talks about not optimizing life around the perfect vacation but around building the kind of ordinary life you actually want. That idea stuck with me because maybe relationships deserve the same question.

Who do you want beside you on a random Tuesday?

Not the cruise version. Not the wedding version. Not the highlight reel version of somebody. Who do you want when dinner is mediocre, work was exhausting, the laundry is undefeated, and neither of you feels especially magical?

Because ordinary turns out to matter.

I think about my sisters’ marriages sometimes. Three very different marriages, all healthy in very different ways. My sister Colleen and her husband genuinely enjoying a regular night catching up on Live PD episodes. My sister Kathy and her husband quietly drinking coffee together on the patio in the morning. My sister Karyn and her husband finding ten quiet minutes together between driving kids to practices and managing chaos.

Nobody thinks about those moments while dating.

But somehow, those moments become the foundation.

Warren Buffett once said, paraphrasing here, to write down everything you want, cross off all but the top few priorities, and negotiate the rest. That sounds wildly unromantic at first, like turning love into a spreadsheet, which is not exactly how poets hope to meet their future wife.

But maybe there is wisdom there. Not because love should be transactional, but because life forces priorities. If everything becomes non-negotiable, nothing is. At some point, the list gets so long that you are no longer looking for a partner. You are trying to assemble a custom human from preferences, fears, fantasies, and old wounds.

Must be funny. Must love travel. Must heal my childhood wounds. Must communicate perfectly. Must somehow feel emotionally safe while also remaining exciting forever. Must enjoy long walks, short arguments, shared faith, spontaneous adventures, strong coffee, and whatever version of me exists after mile 80 of an ultramarathon.

Reasonable list.

Very normal.

Maybe the better questions are simpler.

Who communicates in a way that works with yours? Who shares a lifestyle compatible with yours? Who handles conflict in a way that builds rather than burns? Who shares enough of your values to walk roughly the same direction when life gets hard?

For me, kindness matters. Curiosity matters. I love the person who asks the extra question, says “tell me more,” and picks up the book afterward because something sparked their interest. And stillness matters too. Who can I sit beside quietly and feel content? No performance. No entertaining. Just peace.

And this part is difficult for me because, again, I am a romantic. I love the sparks. I want the butterflies. I want the absurd conversations that stretch past midnight and the kind of connection that makes a man briefly believe he may finally understand why God invented poetry.

But at 46, with enough scars and stories to know life eventually humbles everyone, I am slowly realizing something:

Romance gets people started.

Commitment carries them home.

Because eventually life gets hard. Sickness comes. Loss comes. Stress comes. Ordinary boredom definitely comes. And “through sickness and health” sounds poetic until life actually gets difficult.

Then suddenly it becomes the whole point.

The older I get, the more I think love may be quieter than we imagine. Less fireworks. More firewood. Less soulmate. More teammate. Someone to laugh with, pray beside, grow beside, forgive, disappoint, repair with, and still reach for when the day has taken more than it gave.

Someone who still feels like peace on a random Tuesday.

Maybe the better question is not simply, “Who do I want?” Maybe it is, “Who do I want to make it work with?” Because love is not proven on the cruise. Love is not built in the perfect lighting. Love is built when the dishes are still in the sink, the bills need paid, the kids need rides, the body gets tired, and grace has to become more than a word we admire on Sunday.

Maybe that is the holy part we keep missing.

The sacred thing is not always the dramatic moment. Sometimes it is two tired people choosing each other after another ordinary day. Sometimes it is coffee on the patio. Sometimes it is ten quiet minutes between practices. Sometimes it is a television show, shared silence, and someone still reaching for your hand when there is no music playing.

So yes, I still believe in romance.

I still believe in butterflies.

But I am learning to believe even more in the person who is still there when the butterflies land, fold their wings, and life becomes Tuesday again.

And if two decent people decide, really decide, to keep choosing each other with enough humility, grace, patience, forgiveness, faith, and stubbornness?

I think most of the time, when Tuesday comes…

they probably can.