I recently signed up for my third round on Match.com…after vehemently swearing that I’ll never again date some maniac I met online. Too many horror stories for my liking, some that I’ve experienced firsthand, and others I’ve only had the displeasure of hearing about. Although this is my third time on Match, I’ve been making my rounds within the online dating circle for the last four years. I’ve filled out the three-million-question personality assessment on eHarmony. I’ve been cyber-harassed by weirdoes on OkCupid. And Match…well, let’s just say I had no luck. I was sniffed out by dozens of Indian men who were, undoubtedly, hunting for potential Indian brides in the U.S. who could help them get green cards so they wouldn’t be deported back to Bangalore once their work visas expired. I certainly wasn’t too keen on the Hindu Connection*, and to add insult to injury, I began getting propositioned for sex by complete strangers. One day I clicked on my inbox to find a message from a young man who was actually semi-attractive; I viewed his profile before I even bothered to open the message, and was pleased to see that he was over 6 feet tall, a college graduate, independently employed, and a dog lover. Not bad at all. I opened the message, which read:
“Hi. What’s your phone number? We should get together for some adult entertainment.”
Delete.
And believe it or not, this was not the only time I encountered a completely obnoxious message in my inbox. There were several occasions in which I opened an email only to find an unsavory message inside. And the worst is certainly receiving a sexually suggestive email from a man who can’t spell to save his life. I, being a grammar and punctuation snob, found it very disappointing that a vast majority of the men who took an interest in me did not seem to know the difference between “they’re” and “there”; one man’s profile was so painful to read that I had to conclude that he was illiterate, which led me to believe that he truly did not possess that Ph. D. he advertised in his “About Me” section (aside from that Doctorate of Deceit from the University of I’m A Fucking Liar). How on earth could he write a dissertation if he can’t even write an online dating profile? And doesn’t anyone proofread anymore?
This led to a heated phone conversation with a customer service operator at the toll-free Match hotline.
“I did not pay to be propositioned for sex,” I seethed. “How do you expect me to find the love of my life when I’m so busy playing hide-and-seek with these creeps? I thought this site was guaranteed!”
The sympathetic (and frightened) man on the other end eventually offered me a 60% refund and the obligatory “we’re sorry you were unable to find your perfect match on Match.com. We can offer you 25% off in the future, should you decide to give your search for love another try.”
So why am I here once again? After only a few days, I’m beginning to ask myself the same question.
I guess part of the reason is that lately I’ve been hearing stories about people who really met their match on Match. My office-mate met her partner online, and they’re been together for years. Another coworker is preparing to marry her Match-match later this month. Even I once had the experience of falling in love with a man I met online. Although it didn’t end well, it does leave me with a sliver of hope that maybe the right connection is out there somewhere.
My other reason for jumping back on the cyber-train is that I have not yet had the experience of online-dating at my goal weight. In fact, my weight was one major factor that made online dating so difficult for me in the past. Anyone who has ever struggled with their weight understands how difficult it can be to confidently present yourself to a website full of strangers, many of whom may not be so understanding when it comes to why you look the way you look. Checking out a profile in which a guy shares that he’s “fit and active, and would like to meet a woman who values fitness as much as I do” is more than intimidating. His idea of an ideal Saturday may include a 10-mile hike in some canyon with his dog, while I could barely hike up the stairs to my apartment without keeling over and dying.
So how do you get around the shame of knowing that most of the men won’t give you a second glance once they learn that you’re significantly overweight? Well, you find strategies. You only take pictures from certain angles (preferably from above, to hide your extra chin). You NEVER include a body shot (you don’t want to run off your suitors before they’ve had an opportunity to catch a glimpse of your sparkling personality in the written section of your profile). If anyone asks, you haven’t had a chance to add more pictures yet, but you’ll get around to it really soon.
The hardest part, however, is the “Description” section. You certainly can’t leave it blank, because that will raise suspicion. You could call yourself “heavyset,” but that’s not particularly appealing. “More to love?” Maybe for some, but to me it always sounded like a bad joke…a way to lighten the mood surrounding the obesity conversation that a majority of people tend to avoid by not dating obese people in the first place. “Curvy” is the description I always used, because it sounded the least offensive and the most plausible. The trick is finding a way to justify the word you choose; omitting the truth, rather than blatantly lying.
But then comes the dreaded and inevitable first date. You can hide yourself behind a few strategic photos, but a face-to-face encounter will ensure that eventually the truth will make its way out into the open, leaving you looking like a fraud. A phony who advertises herself as “curvy” because she can’t bring herself to use the word “obese”. Every time I went on a date with a man and saw the look of unpleasant surprise on his face, I felt guilty. I wasn’t just omitting the truth; I was an out-and-out liar.
Now, 5 sizes later, I’m on board for round 3; and this time, I’ll be the honest version who takes photos head-on and doesn’t mind truthfully describing herself as “Average.” No bites so far, other than a few emails from a fellow who appears to be the Most Boring Man on the Planet, as well as several winks from men who are old enough to be my lecherous uncles. They say that the third time’s a charm, but I guess time will tell…and if not, I suppose I can always rely on my good friend at the Match.com Customer Service Hotline to remedy the situation.
*The Hindu Connection is the affectionate name I’ve bestowed upon Indian social dynamics, particularly the way in which they sniff out and befriend one another solely based on the fact that they’re both Indian. Do they have anything in common? Who cares?! They both have the last name Patel!
Friday, January 13, 2012
Thursday, December 29, 2011
I now arrange you husband and wife.
When you’re an Indian woman of a certain age, your options in the marriage pool become very limited. Typically, once you hit your late 20’s, it is deemed unlikely that you will ever meet a suitable mate; once you get to 30, it’s absolutely hopeless. In fact, my mother is currently hatching a plot in which she will move to Los Angeles and live with me, now that I won’t have any pesky husband or children to prevent me from giving her my undivided attention. Believe it or not, this was not her idea; it came at the suggestion of my grandmother, who seemed to believe that it was unlikely that I would ever get married at the old and decrepit age of 27.
Fortunately for me, I pulled myself out of that marriage pool many years ago; actually, it would probably be more accurate to say that I was never in it to begin with. I wouldn’t want to be a part of any social or cultural institution that determines a woman’s worth by her age (young), figure (slim), skin color (fair), or family background (rich). Nor would I want to live my life under the impression that I was destined to be an old maid if I happened to find myself unmarried after 25. After all, things in the marriage arena have certainly changed among my generation; many people are choosing to prolong marriage in favor of their careers, more couples are opting for cohabitation instead of taking vows, and some are washing their hands of this marriage business all together, instead choosing to live out their lives as swinging singles. In this day and age, anything is possible.
Or is it? Although I found myself feeling hopeful for my romantic future a few years ago, I’m now starting to feel that nagging doubt that I’ve missed the boat. Almost everyone I went to high school with is now married, most of them with children. Amongst my close circle of friends, more of them are now involved in long-term relationships. Every time I log onto Facebook, I’m bombarded by news that someone has either gotten engaged, tied the knot, or had a few babies (many of whom mysteriously resemble little pink kidney beans, until they get older and turn into adorable miniature people). I’m constantly pestered by relatives who think that I should “find a nice Sindhi boy to marry.” Even some of my clients ask me why I’m not married. In fact, not too long ago, I found myself in the middle of a particularly awkward exchange with a 5-year-old client during her therapy session.
Client: “You got a husband?”
Me: “Nope.”
Client: “You got a kid?”
Me: “Nope, no kids.”
Client: “You got a dog?”
Me: “Nope, no dog.”
Client: “Then who you got?!”
My thoughts exactly.
And the truth is, the older you get, the slimmer the pickings are. Nowadays, when I meet a single guy over 30, I find myself wondering what his problem is. Commitment-phobe? Pathalogical liar? Living in his mother’s basement, playing Magic the Gathering? Hell, a wife and 5 kids hidden on the side? What’s a girl to do? It’s like going to the buffet only to discover that all the good pieces of sweet-and-sour chicken have been snatched up by your fellow diners, and all that’s left are the soggy pieces of batter with no chicken inside.
When you’re starting to feel the pressure of being single at a later age, eventually you begin to consider options that certainly wouldn’t fly back when you were younger. In my case, that option would be…the dreaded arranged marriage. To be fair, it’s not truly dreaded among the Indian set. In fact, some within my community would say that arranged marriage is the only way to go. The marriage is orchestrated by family members, sometimes with the help of a matchmaker or a well-meaning great-grandparent, and all things are taken into consideration, from family upbringing to religion to education level. Think of it as a well-planned business deal: your marriage is arranged based on what makes sense, versus the idea of finding the romance of the century and living happily ever after.
When I was younger, the idea of an arranged marriage was horrifying. What if you were stuck with a dude who was a complete bore? What if you show up to your own wedding just to discover that the man you’ll be marrying is sporting a huge, hairy mole on his chin in the shape of some exotic country? And you couldn’t very well just walk away from mole-man with the knowledge that you’ll be shaming your family and labeling yourself as unmarriageable or mentally ill. I remember feeling particularly disturbed following a conversation with my aunt about her own arranged marriage. She shared that she saw her husband for the second time in her life on their wedding day, and they didn’t even speak to one another for the first time until after the ceremony. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom how a person would be willing to make the commitment of a lifetime to a person they’ve never even spoken to. They might be lame and unintelligent. Worse still, they could be physically and emotionally abusive. They could be an ax-murderer, for all you know. So where’s the appeal?
I’ve been asking myself this question for several years, amidst the prying inquiries from relatives about my love life and the increasing stress on my parents, who worry that they will eventually die and leave me on this earth alone. I’d be lying if I said that the idea of spending the rest of my existence alone didn’t scare the hell out me. But is the prospect frightening enough to push me in the direction of a custom that I’ve always found somewhat barbaric? I’ve heard horrific stories about arranged marriage, and if you’ve ever read an article on dowry deaths and bride burning, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. For those of you who are unfamiliar, a dowry death is when a young bride is murdered or driven to suicide by her in-laws when her family is unable to pay a large dowry following the wedding. And if you do your homework, you’ll learn that there are far more acquittals than convictions for the murders of these young women. My mother always tells me that cases such as these only take place in villages amongst the uneducated, but I still find myself feeling disgusted at the thought of this type of violence against women being acceptable anywhere, let alone within a culture that I’m a part of. And why the hell should there be a dowry in the first place? Is it really necessary that I pay some fool to marry me? I want to attract a man’s interest because he finds me beautiful, intelligent and humorous—not because my parents are offering him some cash and a new refrigerator.
But in the best-case scenario, arranged marriages may be ideal for some, because the marriage is based on practicality and partnership as opposed to hormones and romantic notions. My aunts all had arranged marriages, and they seem happy with the cards dealt to them. And in reality, is arranged marriage really any more barbaric than some of the bullshit a single girl has to endure while taking a swim in the dating pool? If I had a nickel for every time I was treated disrespectfully by a man I dated, I’d be a goddamn millionaire….although if I were treated disrespectfully, you can bet I didn’t date them for too long. The point is that sometimes you just get tired of putting up with the nonsense attached to the process of finding love. The games, the mixed messages, the emotional exhaustion that comes from trying to read your date to determine if he’s a total loser. If I were to seek out an arranged marriage, you can bet your ass I’ll be matched up and married off within a year. And since I won’t know the guy from a hole in the wall, then I can’t be carried away by the affectionate feelings and unrealistic expectations that can sometimes develop when you fall hard for a man who, in the end, isn’t right for you at all.
I find myself asking the arranged marriage question more frequently these days. Time marches on; soon, most of my friends will be married with families of their own, and I will have to find new ways to spend my time. And many of my mother’s friends are now clamoring for me to marry their sons. Who knows? Maybe a few more years of the single life will shift my views. And I guess there are worse things than marrying a guy with bad breath and a hairy mole….right?
Fortunately for me, I pulled myself out of that marriage pool many years ago; actually, it would probably be more accurate to say that I was never in it to begin with. I wouldn’t want to be a part of any social or cultural institution that determines a woman’s worth by her age (young), figure (slim), skin color (fair), or family background (rich). Nor would I want to live my life under the impression that I was destined to be an old maid if I happened to find myself unmarried after 25. After all, things in the marriage arena have certainly changed among my generation; many people are choosing to prolong marriage in favor of their careers, more couples are opting for cohabitation instead of taking vows, and some are washing their hands of this marriage business all together, instead choosing to live out their lives as swinging singles. In this day and age, anything is possible.
Or is it? Although I found myself feeling hopeful for my romantic future a few years ago, I’m now starting to feel that nagging doubt that I’ve missed the boat. Almost everyone I went to high school with is now married, most of them with children. Amongst my close circle of friends, more of them are now involved in long-term relationships. Every time I log onto Facebook, I’m bombarded by news that someone has either gotten engaged, tied the knot, or had a few babies (many of whom mysteriously resemble little pink kidney beans, until they get older and turn into adorable miniature people). I’m constantly pestered by relatives who think that I should “find a nice Sindhi boy to marry.” Even some of my clients ask me why I’m not married. In fact, not too long ago, I found myself in the middle of a particularly awkward exchange with a 5-year-old client during her therapy session.
Client: “You got a husband?”
Me: “Nope.”
Client: “You got a kid?”
Me: “Nope, no kids.”
Client: “You got a dog?”
Me: “Nope, no dog.”
Client: “Then who you got?!”
My thoughts exactly.
And the truth is, the older you get, the slimmer the pickings are. Nowadays, when I meet a single guy over 30, I find myself wondering what his problem is. Commitment-phobe? Pathalogical liar? Living in his mother’s basement, playing Magic the Gathering? Hell, a wife and 5 kids hidden on the side? What’s a girl to do? It’s like going to the buffet only to discover that all the good pieces of sweet-and-sour chicken have been snatched up by your fellow diners, and all that’s left are the soggy pieces of batter with no chicken inside.
When you’re starting to feel the pressure of being single at a later age, eventually you begin to consider options that certainly wouldn’t fly back when you were younger. In my case, that option would be…the dreaded arranged marriage. To be fair, it’s not truly dreaded among the Indian set. In fact, some within my community would say that arranged marriage is the only way to go. The marriage is orchestrated by family members, sometimes with the help of a matchmaker or a well-meaning great-grandparent, and all things are taken into consideration, from family upbringing to religion to education level. Think of it as a well-planned business deal: your marriage is arranged based on what makes sense, versus the idea of finding the romance of the century and living happily ever after.
When I was younger, the idea of an arranged marriage was horrifying. What if you were stuck with a dude who was a complete bore? What if you show up to your own wedding just to discover that the man you’ll be marrying is sporting a huge, hairy mole on his chin in the shape of some exotic country? And you couldn’t very well just walk away from mole-man with the knowledge that you’ll be shaming your family and labeling yourself as unmarriageable or mentally ill. I remember feeling particularly disturbed following a conversation with my aunt about her own arranged marriage. She shared that she saw her husband for the second time in her life on their wedding day, and they didn’t even speak to one another for the first time until after the ceremony. For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom how a person would be willing to make the commitment of a lifetime to a person they’ve never even spoken to. They might be lame and unintelligent. Worse still, they could be physically and emotionally abusive. They could be an ax-murderer, for all you know. So where’s the appeal?
I’ve been asking myself this question for several years, amidst the prying inquiries from relatives about my love life and the increasing stress on my parents, who worry that they will eventually die and leave me on this earth alone. I’d be lying if I said that the idea of spending the rest of my existence alone didn’t scare the hell out me. But is the prospect frightening enough to push me in the direction of a custom that I’ve always found somewhat barbaric? I’ve heard horrific stories about arranged marriage, and if you’ve ever read an article on dowry deaths and bride burning, then you know exactly what I’m talking about. For those of you who are unfamiliar, a dowry death is when a young bride is murdered or driven to suicide by her in-laws when her family is unable to pay a large dowry following the wedding. And if you do your homework, you’ll learn that there are far more acquittals than convictions for the murders of these young women. My mother always tells me that cases such as these only take place in villages amongst the uneducated, but I still find myself feeling disgusted at the thought of this type of violence against women being acceptable anywhere, let alone within a culture that I’m a part of. And why the hell should there be a dowry in the first place? Is it really necessary that I pay some fool to marry me? I want to attract a man’s interest because he finds me beautiful, intelligent and humorous—not because my parents are offering him some cash and a new refrigerator.
But in the best-case scenario, arranged marriages may be ideal for some, because the marriage is based on practicality and partnership as opposed to hormones and romantic notions. My aunts all had arranged marriages, and they seem happy with the cards dealt to them. And in reality, is arranged marriage really any more barbaric than some of the bullshit a single girl has to endure while taking a swim in the dating pool? If I had a nickel for every time I was treated disrespectfully by a man I dated, I’d be a goddamn millionaire….although if I were treated disrespectfully, you can bet I didn’t date them for too long. The point is that sometimes you just get tired of putting up with the nonsense attached to the process of finding love. The games, the mixed messages, the emotional exhaustion that comes from trying to read your date to determine if he’s a total loser. If I were to seek out an arranged marriage, you can bet your ass I’ll be matched up and married off within a year. And since I won’t know the guy from a hole in the wall, then I can’t be carried away by the affectionate feelings and unrealistic expectations that can sometimes develop when you fall hard for a man who, in the end, isn’t right for you at all.
I find myself asking the arranged marriage question more frequently these days. Time marches on; soon, most of my friends will be married with families of their own, and I will have to find new ways to spend my time. And many of my mother’s friends are now clamoring for me to marry their sons. Who knows? Maybe a few more years of the single life will shift my views. And I guess there are worse things than marrying a guy with bad breath and a hairy mole….right?
Friday, December 9, 2011
Blast From the (Brokenhearted) Past
When one envisions the city of Los Angeles, two words typically come to mind: enormous and overcrowded. It’s a city with a very impersonal vibe; you have no idea who your neighbors are, you don’t spend much time interacting with people due to most of your day being spent cursing alone in your car while stuck in traffic, and you hardly run into the same person twice unless you specifically make plans to do so. On any given day you find yourself surrounded by hundreds of people that you’ll probably never see again. So how is possible that in a city boasting a population of almost 4 million, you could come across the same ex-boyfriend six times in six months, in the most random of places? And what are the odds that the ex-boyfriend you keep running into would just happen to be the one that caused the most damage?
A. and I met during my first year in graduate school. I stumbled upon his profile on an online dating site, discovered that he was a fellow UCLA grad student, and made arrangements to meet him over dinner following several hours of phone conversation. I discovered that he and I both grew up in small towns on the central coast, and that his younger sister was married to a guy that I went to high school with. We both possessed the same dry sense of humor, and our flirting was loaded with sarcasm. Aside from being intelligent and hilarious, he was also shy and pretty awkward, which interestingly enough only added to his appeal. And, wonder of wonders, he seemed find me attractive, which was unheard of for me, being that I weighed just over 200 pounds. He looked right past the extra weight, instead talking about how comfortable he felt spending time with me. After that night, not a day passed in which we didn’t talk to each other—most nights, we would spend hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything. We made ourselves at home in each other’s apartments, and every Friday we would have date night, where we would go out for dinner followed by an evening of relaxing together at my apartment and unwinding from a stressful week of papers, projects, and exams.
Over the next year, I fell—hard. It was an experience akin to jumping from a plane without a parachute, and unfortunately, the relationship eventually ended that way. For over a year following our breakup, my emotions were splattered all over the asphalt. What made the experience particularly excruciating was the fact that I was completely unprepared for it. We had become very close, A. and I. I knew things about him that he had never told anyone. He always knew how to make me laugh after a particularly hellish day. A few weeks after offhandedly mentioning that he would never introduce a girl to his family unless he was serious about her, he invited me to spend a weekend in his family’s home. Knowing that he cared about me enough to introduce me to his parents was elating, and I was blindsided when he came to my home a few weeks later and told me that it was over.
He and I were having dinner at my apartment on a warm summer night in August, following a splendid date at the Getty Center the day before. After clearing his plate, he abruptly started crying, and said that he didn’t think he and I should continue being romantically involved with one another. Well, at least he brought his appetite beforehand.
He didn’t really offer much of an explanation, other than “I’m just not sure how I feel about you.” He had a difficult time letting me go, and insisted that he and I remain friends. Assuming that he was just experiencing some momentary cold feet, I agreed; I was sure that within a few weeks he would come to his senses and correct his mistake. We remained “friends” for 6 months, carrying on our nightly phone conversations and spending several evenings a week together; oftentimes I would catch him staring at me as I washed dishes, did homework, or watched the funny vedeos he would show me on YouTube. Some nights he would cry, saying that he missed me and that he wished he could find his way out of the storm of confusion brewing in his head.
The following February, things came to a sudden end, this time for good. I found out that he had been quietly dating someone else, which was both heartbreaking and enlightening. I learned that he wasn’t “unsure”—he just wasn’t interested. After that fateful phone conversation, during which I discovered that the girl he was now seeing was a longtime friend and fellow lab geek from his graduate program, we never spoke again.
Following that devastating experience, I was a disaster. I would spend hours on the couch each day, crying and watching reruns. I would Facebook-stalk him and his girlfriend endlessly, which led to me accidentally sharing one of her photo albums of their romantic trip to San Francisco on my profile. And, to my dismay, I ran into him EVERYWHERE. I would see him on campus, bumping into him in the quad at the court of sciences, or at the student health center. Then, I started running into him in the most strangest of places, like crossing Santa Monica Boulevard. One day, I even came face-to-face with his girlfriend at Nordstrom. I was looking at handbags on sale, and when I looked up, she was right in front of me, eyeing a purse similar to the one that was in my hand. I was intrigued by this girl. What did she have that I didn’t have? Did she have an incredible personality? Was she a freak in bed? Did she have a vagina made of gold? I trailed her around the first floor of Nordstrom, obsessed with discovering why she was the one he had chosen. I hid in the accessories department, watching her from behind a display of floppy sun hats. An employee came over to ask me if she could be of any assistance. “No!” I snarled. The poor woman scampered away, and I resumed my obsessive investigation, eyeing her clothes, her haircut, her handbag. I noted that she appeared cockeyed and frumpy, which brought me intense satisfaction. Petty, and definitely not my finest hour.
The situation blew up the following month, when I had joined a group of girlfriends for champagne brunch. As the waitress was taking our orders, he walked in with his girlfriend and seated himself at a table across the restaurant. He didn’t see me, and I proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk. We didn’t come face to face until I ran into him in front of the restroom after finishing almost an entire bottle of champagne. He was paying the bill, and I had to squeeze past him to get to the ladies’ room. I, being piss-drunk and ill-tempered, loudly hissed at him in front of a waitress and several restaurant patrons. He was humiliated, and couldn’t seem to make eye contact with anything but his shoes. Was it because he was feeling embarrassed about the way he had treated me, leading me to believe for so many months that there was hope for the two of us? Or was he embarrassed for me, due to my childish behavior? As he walked out of the restaurant with his girlfriend, I verbally abused him, loudly enough to ensure that he heard every word I said. A loyal (and drunk) friend of mine even gave a hearty “Boooo!!!” as he walked out the door. Once again, not my finest hour. But we had broken up six months earlier, and I had already run into him and his girlfriend six times. I had hit my limit. When would it end?
I didn’t see him again for almost three years…until just a few days ago. I was alone, Christmas shopping in Santa Monica. As I walked past the shops, a young man up ahead caught my eye. A young man that looked suspiciously like A. As I got closer, I realized that it was A. I was tempted to duck into Forever 21, especially following my drunken performance at brunch nearly 3 years ago, which was the last time we had come face-to-face. I bravely decided to walk on and face the music. I wondered if he had spotted me, as I was about to pass him on the sidewalk; we were only inches away from one another. Would he be surprised to see me? Would he get that panicked, overwhelmed expression that he typically wore when he ran into me unexpectedly? I had lost 80 pounds since we had last seen each other. Would he even recognize me?
I guess the answer was no. He walked right by me, oblivious and fashion-challenged. He did not wear that expression of sheer horror. He didn’t even seem to know who the hell I was. In a way, I take satisfaction in that. I look better than I have in years. I wear a size six, I only have one chin, and I walk with my head held high, possessing a confidence that I had forgotten I once had. That’s what he didn’t recognize…and if that’s true, then it’s not a bad thing.
I wonder if I’ll run into him again. If I do, I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to say hello. Sometimes these things come in waves, so I may encounter him again at the supermarket, the gas station, and the mall. Apparently, repeatedly running into the man that broke your heart in a city of 4 million isn’t unheard of. And apparently, the enormous city of Los Angeles isn’t nearly big enough.
A. and I met during my first year in graduate school. I stumbled upon his profile on an online dating site, discovered that he was a fellow UCLA grad student, and made arrangements to meet him over dinner following several hours of phone conversation. I discovered that he and I both grew up in small towns on the central coast, and that his younger sister was married to a guy that I went to high school with. We both possessed the same dry sense of humor, and our flirting was loaded with sarcasm. Aside from being intelligent and hilarious, he was also shy and pretty awkward, which interestingly enough only added to his appeal. And, wonder of wonders, he seemed find me attractive, which was unheard of for me, being that I weighed just over 200 pounds. He looked right past the extra weight, instead talking about how comfortable he felt spending time with me. After that night, not a day passed in which we didn’t talk to each other—most nights, we would spend hours on the phone talking about nothing and everything. We made ourselves at home in each other’s apartments, and every Friday we would have date night, where we would go out for dinner followed by an evening of relaxing together at my apartment and unwinding from a stressful week of papers, projects, and exams.
Over the next year, I fell—hard. It was an experience akin to jumping from a plane without a parachute, and unfortunately, the relationship eventually ended that way. For over a year following our breakup, my emotions were splattered all over the asphalt. What made the experience particularly excruciating was the fact that I was completely unprepared for it. We had become very close, A. and I. I knew things about him that he had never told anyone. He always knew how to make me laugh after a particularly hellish day. A few weeks after offhandedly mentioning that he would never introduce a girl to his family unless he was serious about her, he invited me to spend a weekend in his family’s home. Knowing that he cared about me enough to introduce me to his parents was elating, and I was blindsided when he came to my home a few weeks later and told me that it was over.
He and I were having dinner at my apartment on a warm summer night in August, following a splendid date at the Getty Center the day before. After clearing his plate, he abruptly started crying, and said that he didn’t think he and I should continue being romantically involved with one another. Well, at least he brought his appetite beforehand.
He didn’t really offer much of an explanation, other than “I’m just not sure how I feel about you.” He had a difficult time letting me go, and insisted that he and I remain friends. Assuming that he was just experiencing some momentary cold feet, I agreed; I was sure that within a few weeks he would come to his senses and correct his mistake. We remained “friends” for 6 months, carrying on our nightly phone conversations and spending several evenings a week together; oftentimes I would catch him staring at me as I washed dishes, did homework, or watched the funny vedeos he would show me on YouTube. Some nights he would cry, saying that he missed me and that he wished he could find his way out of the storm of confusion brewing in his head.
The following February, things came to a sudden end, this time for good. I found out that he had been quietly dating someone else, which was both heartbreaking and enlightening. I learned that he wasn’t “unsure”—he just wasn’t interested. After that fateful phone conversation, during which I discovered that the girl he was now seeing was a longtime friend and fellow lab geek from his graduate program, we never spoke again.
Following that devastating experience, I was a disaster. I would spend hours on the couch each day, crying and watching reruns. I would Facebook-stalk him and his girlfriend endlessly, which led to me accidentally sharing one of her photo albums of their romantic trip to San Francisco on my profile. And, to my dismay, I ran into him EVERYWHERE. I would see him on campus, bumping into him in the quad at the court of sciences, or at the student health center. Then, I started running into him in the most strangest of places, like crossing Santa Monica Boulevard. One day, I even came face-to-face with his girlfriend at Nordstrom. I was looking at handbags on sale, and when I looked up, she was right in front of me, eyeing a purse similar to the one that was in my hand. I was intrigued by this girl. What did she have that I didn’t have? Did she have an incredible personality? Was she a freak in bed? Did she have a vagina made of gold? I trailed her around the first floor of Nordstrom, obsessed with discovering why she was the one he had chosen. I hid in the accessories department, watching her from behind a display of floppy sun hats. An employee came over to ask me if she could be of any assistance. “No!” I snarled. The poor woman scampered away, and I resumed my obsessive investigation, eyeing her clothes, her haircut, her handbag. I noted that she appeared cockeyed and frumpy, which brought me intense satisfaction. Petty, and definitely not my finest hour.
The situation blew up the following month, when I had joined a group of girlfriends for champagne brunch. As the waitress was taking our orders, he walked in with his girlfriend and seated himself at a table across the restaurant. He didn’t see me, and I proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk. We didn’t come face to face until I ran into him in front of the restroom after finishing almost an entire bottle of champagne. He was paying the bill, and I had to squeeze past him to get to the ladies’ room. I, being piss-drunk and ill-tempered, loudly hissed at him in front of a waitress and several restaurant patrons. He was humiliated, and couldn’t seem to make eye contact with anything but his shoes. Was it because he was feeling embarrassed about the way he had treated me, leading me to believe for so many months that there was hope for the two of us? Or was he embarrassed for me, due to my childish behavior? As he walked out of the restaurant with his girlfriend, I verbally abused him, loudly enough to ensure that he heard every word I said. A loyal (and drunk) friend of mine even gave a hearty “Boooo!!!” as he walked out the door. Once again, not my finest hour. But we had broken up six months earlier, and I had already run into him and his girlfriend six times. I had hit my limit. When would it end?
I didn’t see him again for almost three years…until just a few days ago. I was alone, Christmas shopping in Santa Monica. As I walked past the shops, a young man up ahead caught my eye. A young man that looked suspiciously like A. As I got closer, I realized that it was A. I was tempted to duck into Forever 21, especially following my drunken performance at brunch nearly 3 years ago, which was the last time we had come face-to-face. I bravely decided to walk on and face the music. I wondered if he had spotted me, as I was about to pass him on the sidewalk; we were only inches away from one another. Would he be surprised to see me? Would he get that panicked, overwhelmed expression that he typically wore when he ran into me unexpectedly? I had lost 80 pounds since we had last seen each other. Would he even recognize me?
I guess the answer was no. He walked right by me, oblivious and fashion-challenged. He did not wear that expression of sheer horror. He didn’t even seem to know who the hell I was. In a way, I take satisfaction in that. I look better than I have in years. I wear a size six, I only have one chin, and I walk with my head held high, possessing a confidence that I had forgotten I once had. That’s what he didn’t recognize…and if that’s true, then it’s not a bad thing.
I wonder if I’ll run into him again. If I do, I wonder if I’ll have the nerve to say hello. Sometimes these things come in waves, so I may encounter him again at the supermarket, the gas station, and the mall. Apparently, repeatedly running into the man that broke your heart in a city of 4 million isn’t unheard of. And apparently, the enormous city of Los Angeles isn’t nearly big enough.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
I really hope we can be friends (in your pants).
I have to say that the trickiest concept to grasp since charging into the dating game a few years ago is the idea of “friends with benefits”. You see it all the time in movies; boy and girl meet, decide that due to a promising career or an exciting playboy lifestyle, their lives are too hectic to accommodate a relationship, and opt to engage in some no-strings-attached sex. The boy and the girl eventually realize that they can’t live without one another, renounce their philandering ways, and get married, after which they move into a lovely 2-story colonial home and have 7 children. While this all sounds lovely, in my experience all you wind up with at the end of a friends-with-benefits relationship is the painful sting of humiliation, along with the 10 pounds you gain eating your feelings. And those 10 pounds are tough to lose. So why have a friend with benefits? In fact, if you’re left feeling like your emotions have been thrown in a blender, then where’s the benefit?
M. (also known as the wolf in kindergarten teacher’s clothing) attempted to sweet-talk me into a friends-with-benefits relationship. After he politely informed me that he had no interest in participating in the activities required of dating me or anybody else, he decided to try his luck with the FWB card.
“I really like you,” he said, “and I’ve been thinking about how much I want to sleep with you…so maybe we could have kind of a friends-with-benefits thing.”
Cheap sex with a guy who doesn’t give a shit about me and who will probably conveniently lose my phone number following our interlude? Sign me up!
And as if that wasn’t enough to fill me with the desire to launch myself out of my panties (or shove them down his throat), he also added, just to avoid any unnecessary confusion, “that this isn’t, like, coming from a place of love or anything.” Hmmm. As I had previously stressed to him on numerous occasions that I am only looking for something meaningful at this stage in my life (which he vehemently agreed with), I found myself wondering how things had gone so grossly awry. Was he deaf? Did he not have a proper grasp of the English language? Did the word “relationship” in his vocabulary stand for “let’s have sex so I can kick you out of my apartment in the middle of the night and never talk to you again?” And to think, he’s a kindergarten teacher. If this is the way he operates, then there’s no telling what he’s teaching our nation’s children.
“If all you want is sex,” I asked, “then why don’t you just pick up some chick at a bar, like a normal guy?”
“Well,” he replied, “I’ve never had a casual sex relationship, so if I have one I would like it to be with someone I really like.”
I informed him that he could like me alone, or with the assistance of his right hand, but that there would be no “friends with benefits”. To me, the term makes no sense. If you’re having sex with someone that you don’t have any type of attachment to on an emotional level, then you’re not really friends at all--you're just sex partners. But, I guess for some people that in itself can be a benefit. You can get your rocks off and not have to make them eggs in the morning. Hell, they won’t even be there in the morning. But for me, the shame will. The feeling that I’ve been blatantly used and put on the shelf until next time will follow me through each sexual encounter, and will probably in some ways prevent me from meeting a real man who wants a real relationship—not some delayed adolescent that has the attention span of a peanut and can’t think any further then what he’d like to do in bed tonight.
A friend of mine asked me if I thought there was a possibility that starting a friends-with-benefits relationship with M. could eventually result in a mature, loving relationship between the two of us. Honestly, I wondered the same thing. In fact, I even considered it as a possibility. In that moment, I briefly lost sight of what I was worth, until I came to my senses and realized that my life was not the stuff of bad romantic comedy. In the end, I would be alone, hurt, and eating my way into oblivion while watching “Sex and the City” reruns and cursing Mr. Big.
Although friends with benefits may work for some, as far as I'm concerned...you have my friendship. That’s your benefit.
M. (also known as the wolf in kindergarten teacher’s clothing) attempted to sweet-talk me into a friends-with-benefits relationship. After he politely informed me that he had no interest in participating in the activities required of dating me or anybody else, he decided to try his luck with the FWB card.
“I really like you,” he said, “and I’ve been thinking about how much I want to sleep with you…so maybe we could have kind of a friends-with-benefits thing.”
Cheap sex with a guy who doesn’t give a shit about me and who will probably conveniently lose my phone number following our interlude? Sign me up!
And as if that wasn’t enough to fill me with the desire to launch myself out of my panties (or shove them down his throat), he also added, just to avoid any unnecessary confusion, “that this isn’t, like, coming from a place of love or anything.” Hmmm. As I had previously stressed to him on numerous occasions that I am only looking for something meaningful at this stage in my life (which he vehemently agreed with), I found myself wondering how things had gone so grossly awry. Was he deaf? Did he not have a proper grasp of the English language? Did the word “relationship” in his vocabulary stand for “let’s have sex so I can kick you out of my apartment in the middle of the night and never talk to you again?” And to think, he’s a kindergarten teacher. If this is the way he operates, then there’s no telling what he’s teaching our nation’s children.
“If all you want is sex,” I asked, “then why don’t you just pick up some chick at a bar, like a normal guy?”
“Well,” he replied, “I’ve never had a casual sex relationship, so if I have one I would like it to be with someone I really like.”
I informed him that he could like me alone, or with the assistance of his right hand, but that there would be no “friends with benefits”. To me, the term makes no sense. If you’re having sex with someone that you don’t have any type of attachment to on an emotional level, then you’re not really friends at all--you're just sex partners. But, I guess for some people that in itself can be a benefit. You can get your rocks off and not have to make them eggs in the morning. Hell, they won’t even be there in the morning. But for me, the shame will. The feeling that I’ve been blatantly used and put on the shelf until next time will follow me through each sexual encounter, and will probably in some ways prevent me from meeting a real man who wants a real relationship—not some delayed adolescent that has the attention span of a peanut and can’t think any further then what he’d like to do in bed tonight.
A friend of mine asked me if I thought there was a possibility that starting a friends-with-benefits relationship with M. could eventually result in a mature, loving relationship between the two of us. Honestly, I wondered the same thing. In fact, I even considered it as a possibility. In that moment, I briefly lost sight of what I was worth, until I came to my senses and realized that my life was not the stuff of bad romantic comedy. In the end, I would be alone, hurt, and eating my way into oblivion while watching “Sex and the City” reruns and cursing Mr. Big.
Although friends with benefits may work for some, as far as I'm concerned...you have my friendship. That’s your benefit.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Whoever said chivalry was dead certainly wasn't kidding.
I once went on a date with a man who wouldn’t even pay for my cup of coffee. In fact, I unwittingly ended up paying for his cup of coffee. I was 23 years old, and it was my first date ever. I had been in a relationship with the same guy since high school, way back when things were simple and you didn’t really date, you were just “going out with so-and-so”. When so-and-so and I broke up after I moved away for graduate school, I was stoked. I was in Los Angeles! And it was FULL OF MEN! So you can imagine my dismay when my first date ever turned out to be a disaster.
B. and I had met on an online dating site. We had agreed to meet at a nearby café, which seemed safe enough. I didn’t want to chance dinner, because there’s nothing worse than sitting across from a heinous jerk and watching him eat for 2 hours. Until I knew for sure that he wasn’t a total moron, I fully intended to stay as far away as possible from even the most casual dining establishment.
From the moment we met, the date was horrific. But the most horrific part was not the hideous black and red pleather motorcycle jacket he wore (no, he informed me, he did not ride a motorcycle). Nor was it the fact that he composed music for horror movies that nobody’s ever heard of. No, it was far worse than any of that. The asshole took my five dollars. He went to the counter to order our drinks (basic coffee for the both of us), which he paid for. I, being unsure of proper dating protocol as I was so new to the game, offered to pay him for my drink. I had only a five-dollar bill in my wallet, which I handed to him. He casually stuffed the bill in his own wallet and didn’t offer me change, which I was certainly expecting since my drink was only $2.50. So I essentially bought the bastard a cup of coffee. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, we sat at a table and made small talk, but it was too late; the date was dead. In my opinion, when a man doesn’t pay for a first date, that’s the beginning of the end.
Since then I admit that I have taken up a somewhat old-fashioned approach when it comes to dating. I like to be the one on the receiving end of phone calls, rather than the one making them. I prefer to be asked out by phone or in person, rather than by text-message. I like to have my car door opened for me. And I like my meal, movie or drinks to be paid for—well, at least in the beginning. No, I’m not looking for handouts, and I certainly don’t need anyone to pay for me, but the bottom line is this: I want to be courted. Now there are some that think this style of dating went out with Scarlett O’Hara. I have a dear co-worker who would get irritated with her boyfriend when he would open doors for her. As far as I’m concerned, you had better have sense enough to open that door for me…or that same door will be hitting you in the ass on your way out of my life.
Unfortunately, sometimes I feel that my view of dating contributes to the idea that a woman may not be seen as a man’s equal. When we allow men to open our doors, help us with our coats, and pay for our meals, do we somehow send the message that we’re incapable of doing these things for ourselves? There are many women out there who definitely think so, and insist on being equals in their relationships in every way—including paying for dinner and a movie. When I’m in a relationship, I definitely want to be seen as my partner’s equal. And if I’m not, I can guarantee that I’ll be kicking and screaming to make myself heard as I walk away. So how does one balance this desire to be treated like a lady with the need to be treated like an equal? Does treating a woman in a chivalrous manner set a precedent for inequality later on, both financially and emotionally?
I’ve tried reconsidering my old-fashioned ways, but unfortunately I just can’t seem to let go. Being treated like a lady makes me feel special, valued. Like the pleasure of my company is worth the price of a meal...or at least a cup of coffee. I have no problem pulling my weight after the relationship is established, but until then, I’d better not have to open my own door, or pull out my wallet. And if you take my five dollars, it’s over. For good. And you can take your ugly pleather motorcycle jacket with you.
B. and I had met on an online dating site. We had agreed to meet at a nearby café, which seemed safe enough. I didn’t want to chance dinner, because there’s nothing worse than sitting across from a heinous jerk and watching him eat for 2 hours. Until I knew for sure that he wasn’t a total moron, I fully intended to stay as far away as possible from even the most casual dining establishment.
From the moment we met, the date was horrific. But the most horrific part was not the hideous black and red pleather motorcycle jacket he wore (no, he informed me, he did not ride a motorcycle). Nor was it the fact that he composed music for horror movies that nobody’s ever heard of. No, it was far worse than any of that. The asshole took my five dollars. He went to the counter to order our drinks (basic coffee for the both of us), which he paid for. I, being unsure of proper dating protocol as I was so new to the game, offered to pay him for my drink. I had only a five-dollar bill in my wallet, which I handed to him. He casually stuffed the bill in his own wallet and didn’t offer me change, which I was certainly expecting since my drink was only $2.50. So I essentially bought the bastard a cup of coffee. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, we sat at a table and made small talk, but it was too late; the date was dead. In my opinion, when a man doesn’t pay for a first date, that’s the beginning of the end.
Since then I admit that I have taken up a somewhat old-fashioned approach when it comes to dating. I like to be the one on the receiving end of phone calls, rather than the one making them. I prefer to be asked out by phone or in person, rather than by text-message. I like to have my car door opened for me. And I like my meal, movie or drinks to be paid for—well, at least in the beginning. No, I’m not looking for handouts, and I certainly don’t need anyone to pay for me, but the bottom line is this: I want to be courted. Now there are some that think this style of dating went out with Scarlett O’Hara. I have a dear co-worker who would get irritated with her boyfriend when he would open doors for her. As far as I’m concerned, you had better have sense enough to open that door for me…or that same door will be hitting you in the ass on your way out of my life.
Unfortunately, sometimes I feel that my view of dating contributes to the idea that a woman may not be seen as a man’s equal. When we allow men to open our doors, help us with our coats, and pay for our meals, do we somehow send the message that we’re incapable of doing these things for ourselves? There are many women out there who definitely think so, and insist on being equals in their relationships in every way—including paying for dinner and a movie. When I’m in a relationship, I definitely want to be seen as my partner’s equal. And if I’m not, I can guarantee that I’ll be kicking and screaming to make myself heard as I walk away. So how does one balance this desire to be treated like a lady with the need to be treated like an equal? Does treating a woman in a chivalrous manner set a precedent for inequality later on, both financially and emotionally?
I’ve tried reconsidering my old-fashioned ways, but unfortunately I just can’t seem to let go. Being treated like a lady makes me feel special, valued. Like the pleasure of my company is worth the price of a meal...or at least a cup of coffee. I have no problem pulling my weight after the relationship is established, but until then, I’d better not have to open my own door, or pull out my wallet. And if you take my five dollars, it’s over. For good. And you can take your ugly pleather motorcycle jacket with you.
Friday, October 7, 2011
I'd rather go blind...than go on a date with you.
Of course, that’s not true. No, I’m not making a mockery out of the blind. But I will no longer turn a blind eye to the douchbaggery that is blind dating. We all dread it; that scenario where one of your well-meaning friends approaches you and excitedly informs you that they know a cute med student/teacher/aspiring film producer/police officer that they’re dying to set you up with. I envision a nation full of eye-rolling singles who have all been subjected to the frightfest that is blind dating.
In all honesty, I’m not opposed to blind-dating myself. In fact, I think I’m more comfortable with blind dating than the whole online-dating business. At least if you’re set up on a date by a mutual friend you know there’s going to be some accountability, and your date will be more likely to leave the monkey business at home where it belongs. However, I know many others who beg to differ. For some, blind-dating is dangerous business.
I’ve actually only been on one blind date, which was arranged by my roommate and her coworker last December. Her coworker said that she knew a great, single guy who’s been trying online dating forever and has been unlucky in love. My roommate immediately suggested that he go out on a date with me, as I, too, have been stuck in a dating rut for the past few years. According to her coworker, J. was quirky (bordering on just plain odd) and funny with a heart of gold. Knowing how much I appreciate guys who are nice and generally weird, my roommate passed along my phone number.
I expected my date to be a freakshow. Another guy to add to the parade of losers that I seem to have a knack for picking up. I was surprised to find that I actually had a wonderful time. He picked me up from my home, which is something you never get to experience when dating online, what with the possibility of your date murdering you and throwing your body in a dumpster behind an elementary school. We had a delicious breakfast at the farmer’s market, followed by a 5-mile walk on the beach. We even spotted dolphins splashing near the shore, as the sun was setting on the water. No shit. Dolphins and a sunset. “It’s a sign!” I thought to myself. We talked about our families, our career goals, and our dating mishaps. He was definitely an odd character, but not odd enough to wear a tinfoil hat and try to contact extraterrestrials. He was just odd enough to make me laugh without creeping me out. The date ended with the customary “I’ll call you soon/let’s do this again sometime.”
So what happened to this Romeo? I’d like to know that myself. We spent a few weeks exchanging long, rambling emails, and feeling frustrated by his lack of follow-through, I bit the bullet and asked him if he would like to get together again. He politely declined, throwing around the excuse of having to work long hours over the holiday season. “Okay,” I replied. “Take care, happy holidays!”
We didn’t speak again after that, with the exception of a very brief email exchange after he stumbled upon my profile on an online dating website. For weeks following this unfortunate episode, I tried to figure out exactly what had happened. The date was great, we had lots to talk about, and we genuinely seemed to hit it off. But at the end of the day, this odd, bearded dude just wasted my time. Imagine all of the things I could have done on that day, when instead I was out on this epic, 6-hour date that never went anywhere. I could have reorganized my closet, or washed my car, or gone Christmas shopping. A whole afternoon, lost! And he couldn’t even man up and be honest about it.
But what surprised me the most about this whole situation was not his lack of follow-through; it was his lack of courtesy. Knowing that we had been set up by mutual friends, one would think that he would have been on his best behavior, considering that there were other people involved. When you’re online dating, things are different. You go out with random people who don’t move within your same social circle, who you’ll likely never see again unless you specifically plan to do so. Therefore, there’s no accountability. If someone decides that they don’t want to see you again, they can disappear into oblivion, never to be seen again, and they can do so without any of the repercussions or potential embarrassment of bumping into that person at a holiday party or something. However, when friends set you up on a blind date, you’re in a way representing that friend. If you act like a dick, you’re not only making yourself look bad, but you’re embarrassing your friend, too, so it’s definitely in your best interest to take the high road and be as courteous as possible throughout the blind-date process.
What determines whether a blind date will be successful? And if a blind date doesn’t go well, or if either party is not interested, what determines how the situation will be resolved? Personally, I feel that this is heavily determined by the degrees of separation between you and your potential date. If this person is a close friend of one of your own close friends, then there will be more accountability. On the other hand, if you’re being set up by a person or people who don’t know you very well (or in my case, my roommate and a coworker that she was not very close with, who also didn’t know me from a hole in the wall), then it’s probably wise to just hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
In many cases nowadays, people don’t even like to get involved in playing Cupid for their friends, because of the possible consequences, such as a nasty breakup. You may just find an angry friend on your doorstep one day, yelling that “…it’s all your fault for setting me up with that moron in the first place!”
Would I ever go on a blind date again? Absolutely, under the right circumstances, and executed by people that I would trust with my life. But for the time being…fuck that mess. I’d rather stay home with my Netflix. I once was blind, but now I see…that blind dates are potentially hazardous to your health.
In all honesty, I’m not opposed to blind-dating myself. In fact, I think I’m more comfortable with blind dating than the whole online-dating business. At least if you’re set up on a date by a mutual friend you know there’s going to be some accountability, and your date will be more likely to leave the monkey business at home where it belongs. However, I know many others who beg to differ. For some, blind-dating is dangerous business.
I’ve actually only been on one blind date, which was arranged by my roommate and her coworker last December. Her coworker said that she knew a great, single guy who’s been trying online dating forever and has been unlucky in love. My roommate immediately suggested that he go out on a date with me, as I, too, have been stuck in a dating rut for the past few years. According to her coworker, J. was quirky (bordering on just plain odd) and funny with a heart of gold. Knowing how much I appreciate guys who are nice and generally weird, my roommate passed along my phone number.
I expected my date to be a freakshow. Another guy to add to the parade of losers that I seem to have a knack for picking up. I was surprised to find that I actually had a wonderful time. He picked me up from my home, which is something you never get to experience when dating online, what with the possibility of your date murdering you and throwing your body in a dumpster behind an elementary school. We had a delicious breakfast at the farmer’s market, followed by a 5-mile walk on the beach. We even spotted dolphins splashing near the shore, as the sun was setting on the water. No shit. Dolphins and a sunset. “It’s a sign!” I thought to myself. We talked about our families, our career goals, and our dating mishaps. He was definitely an odd character, but not odd enough to wear a tinfoil hat and try to contact extraterrestrials. He was just odd enough to make me laugh without creeping me out. The date ended with the customary “I’ll call you soon/let’s do this again sometime.”
So what happened to this Romeo? I’d like to know that myself. We spent a few weeks exchanging long, rambling emails, and feeling frustrated by his lack of follow-through, I bit the bullet and asked him if he would like to get together again. He politely declined, throwing around the excuse of having to work long hours over the holiday season. “Okay,” I replied. “Take care, happy holidays!”
We didn’t speak again after that, with the exception of a very brief email exchange after he stumbled upon my profile on an online dating website. For weeks following this unfortunate episode, I tried to figure out exactly what had happened. The date was great, we had lots to talk about, and we genuinely seemed to hit it off. But at the end of the day, this odd, bearded dude just wasted my time. Imagine all of the things I could have done on that day, when instead I was out on this epic, 6-hour date that never went anywhere. I could have reorganized my closet, or washed my car, or gone Christmas shopping. A whole afternoon, lost! And he couldn’t even man up and be honest about it.
But what surprised me the most about this whole situation was not his lack of follow-through; it was his lack of courtesy. Knowing that we had been set up by mutual friends, one would think that he would have been on his best behavior, considering that there were other people involved. When you’re online dating, things are different. You go out with random people who don’t move within your same social circle, who you’ll likely never see again unless you specifically plan to do so. Therefore, there’s no accountability. If someone decides that they don’t want to see you again, they can disappear into oblivion, never to be seen again, and they can do so without any of the repercussions or potential embarrassment of bumping into that person at a holiday party or something. However, when friends set you up on a blind date, you’re in a way representing that friend. If you act like a dick, you’re not only making yourself look bad, but you’re embarrassing your friend, too, so it’s definitely in your best interest to take the high road and be as courteous as possible throughout the blind-date process.
What determines whether a blind date will be successful? And if a blind date doesn’t go well, or if either party is not interested, what determines how the situation will be resolved? Personally, I feel that this is heavily determined by the degrees of separation between you and your potential date. If this person is a close friend of one of your own close friends, then there will be more accountability. On the other hand, if you’re being set up by a person or people who don’t know you very well (or in my case, my roommate and a coworker that she was not very close with, who also didn’t know me from a hole in the wall), then it’s probably wise to just hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
In many cases nowadays, people don’t even like to get involved in playing Cupid for their friends, because of the possible consequences, such as a nasty breakup. You may just find an angry friend on your doorstep one day, yelling that “…it’s all your fault for setting me up with that moron in the first place!”
Would I ever go on a blind date again? Absolutely, under the right circumstances, and executed by people that I would trust with my life. But for the time being…fuck that mess. I’d rather stay home with my Netflix. I once was blind, but now I see…that blind dates are potentially hazardous to your health.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Cry Freedom!
Today I stumbled upon an article online about the health benefits of kissing. Apparently, there are lots, such as increasingly toned facial muscles. This makes me wonder how much longer I will be a part of this unfortunate group of people who are not reaping the benefits of kissing, particularly mono and bad breath (his).
Maybe we’re not such an unfortunate group. I have several friends who frequently attempt to point out the benefits of living an unattached lifestyle. “There’s so much freedom when you’re single!” Yeah? Well, this freedom could be yours! You, too, could spend Friday nights home alone watching Netflix! In fact, why don’t you ditch your amazing fiancé right now and benefit from a life of freedom? You can’t, you say? You’re too busy planning your wedding? Well, ok then. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if the freedom of single life was so fantastic, then most of my friends probably wouldn’t be in long-term relationships.
And why is it that a relationship automatically means the end of freedom as we know it? I would like to think that a relationship with a nurturing and supportive partner will inspire me to cultivate my interests and grow as a person. So what’s the deal with all the “I’ve lost my freedom” shit?
I briefly dated a man I will call M., who seemed to be a fabulous catch. He taught kindergarten (how can a man who loves children be shady?), was sensitive, chivalrous and affectionate, and shared my love of Harry Potter. He also shared my belief that we were old enough to date like adults and keep the lines of communication open in regards to the status of our relationship. However, things began to go south once the topic of sex arose, and I kindly informed him that there will be no sex until he and I were seeing each other exclusively. After that, M. decided that we shouldn’t see each other anymore, as he was at a stage in his life where he wanted to be “free”. Free from what, exactly? Slavery? My bad jokes? The possibility of having to do some of the real work involved in building a relationship with another person?
M. prattled on about all of the qualities I possessed that he found particularly appealing, including my sense of humor, my intelligence, and my ability to carry on meaningful conversations. Well, forgive me for saying so, my friend, but when you meet a woman that is smart, funny and a good conversationalist, you should consider yourself lucky, because dating a woman like this is a privilege, not prison. Fighting for your freedom is really not necessary. When a person plays the “freedom” card, the first thing that comes to my mind is sheer laziness.
This whole idea of women setting out to claim the freedom of unsuspecting men is utterly ridiculous. I imagine hoards of women gathered in basements in the dead of night plotting ways to foil their boyfriends’ poker nights. Or marching through the wilderness decked out in safari gear with butterfly nets and stun-guns, determined to capture some poor, naïve man who’s just sitting around and minding his own business.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that there are many women out there who do this. In fact, I’ve known several of them personally. And I’m sure the term “ball and chain” didn’t materialize out of thin air. But unfortunately, this whole concept of commitment meaning the end of personal freedom has made it difficult for women out there who are seeking a healthy relationship with a person who is not afraid of the word “relationship.”
So who’s to blame? Possessive and insecure partners? The media? A male’s biological drive to spread his seed as far as possible? What are your thoughts?
Maybe we’re not such an unfortunate group. I have several friends who frequently attempt to point out the benefits of living an unattached lifestyle. “There’s so much freedom when you’re single!” Yeah? Well, this freedom could be yours! You, too, could spend Friday nights home alone watching Netflix! In fact, why don’t you ditch your amazing fiancé right now and benefit from a life of freedom? You can’t, you say? You’re too busy planning your wedding? Well, ok then. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if the freedom of single life was so fantastic, then most of my friends probably wouldn’t be in long-term relationships.
And why is it that a relationship automatically means the end of freedom as we know it? I would like to think that a relationship with a nurturing and supportive partner will inspire me to cultivate my interests and grow as a person. So what’s the deal with all the “I’ve lost my freedom” shit?
I briefly dated a man I will call M., who seemed to be a fabulous catch. He taught kindergarten (how can a man who loves children be shady?), was sensitive, chivalrous and affectionate, and shared my love of Harry Potter. He also shared my belief that we were old enough to date like adults and keep the lines of communication open in regards to the status of our relationship. However, things began to go south once the topic of sex arose, and I kindly informed him that there will be no sex until he and I were seeing each other exclusively. After that, M. decided that we shouldn’t see each other anymore, as he was at a stage in his life where he wanted to be “free”. Free from what, exactly? Slavery? My bad jokes? The possibility of having to do some of the real work involved in building a relationship with another person?
M. prattled on about all of the qualities I possessed that he found particularly appealing, including my sense of humor, my intelligence, and my ability to carry on meaningful conversations. Well, forgive me for saying so, my friend, but when you meet a woman that is smart, funny and a good conversationalist, you should consider yourself lucky, because dating a woman like this is a privilege, not prison. Fighting for your freedom is really not necessary. When a person plays the “freedom” card, the first thing that comes to my mind is sheer laziness.
This whole idea of women setting out to claim the freedom of unsuspecting men is utterly ridiculous. I imagine hoards of women gathered in basements in the dead of night plotting ways to foil their boyfriends’ poker nights. Or marching through the wilderness decked out in safari gear with butterfly nets and stun-guns, determined to capture some poor, naïve man who’s just sitting around and minding his own business.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that there are many women out there who do this. In fact, I’ve known several of them personally. And I’m sure the term “ball and chain” didn’t materialize out of thin air. But unfortunately, this whole concept of commitment meaning the end of personal freedom has made it difficult for women out there who are seeking a healthy relationship with a person who is not afraid of the word “relationship.”
So who’s to blame? Possessive and insecure partners? The media? A male’s biological drive to spread his seed as far as possible? What are your thoughts?
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