2010 was the year I decided to date again. Date consciously, that is. As opposed to accidentally -- like sleep walking -- which inevitably results in a few mysterious bruises the next morning. What I discovered in 2010 is what I already knew from dating in 2009, 2008, and, well, all the way back to 2002, when my life of serial monogamy came to an abrupt end:
Dating is dangerous.
While this discovery does not put me in the camp of Einstein, I do feel beholden to share my experience because dating is too often haloed in the shimmering light of sliver-screen fantasy. Especially when my married friends wax ridiculous about what a great life I must have as a single gal.
The truth is, dating is the work of a secret double agent skulking through enemy territory with no map and very little facility in the enemy’s language.
Put another way, dating is like waiting for the College streetcar. After five have passed going the other way and your toes have become rectangular ice cubes, you realize you could have been at your destination half an hour ago if you had just walked. When your streetcar finally does arrive and you sink with relief into the cold, red vinyl seat, the driver invariably announces that the streetcar will be short turning at the next stop. In other words, patience may be a virtue, but you’ll still likely pay a price.
If all my rich metaphor is still not getting my meaning across, let me explain it this way: The paradox of dating is that you have to spend time with someone in order to know if you want to spend more time with that someone. But the more time you spend with that person, the more dangerous dating becomes because if you discover that you don’t want to spend more time with that person, time has already been spent, and entanglement has already happened, and now you have a history with this person that you wish you didn't, leaving you a lot of regretting and re-visioning to do.
I know what you’re thinking: Jaded much?
Maybe, although jaded people don’t dust themselves off and try again. They simply stop the insanity. The activity of dusting off and trying again is the province of stupid people. And I am that province’s most patriotic citizen.
Nevertheless, when my married friends say they envy my single life, I no longer take offense, even though I know what they mean is that they think I have the freedom to try people out like an omnivore at a free steak-and-salad trough. But if my marrieds really wanted to honour my lifestyle, they’d give me a freaking medal.
"Let it be known that he who wears the Military Order of the Purple Heart has given of his blood in the defense of his homeland and shall forever be revered by his fellow countrymen." That’s the tag line for the Purple Heart medal, which one receives for courage in times of war, the medal I deserve because the war analogy is not an overstatement for dating, where advances are either too fast or too slow but always involve bloodshed.
To wit, let’s examine some of my own personal battle sites:
Battle at Mount Manipulation
I have a bad habit of falling for the wrong guy. Whatever the reason (which only my therapist really knows), it’s a battle I’m now consciously fighting, eyes open, bayonet pointed in the right direction this time – i.e. with pointy bit aimed away from my own chest (who knew?).
The only reason I have had to learn this lesson a bajillion times is that the lesson never arrives the same way twice. In the case of B at MM, a colleague spent five months ramping up his romantic rhetoric to the point of full-blown purple prose in an effort to get my attention. On one particular day, seemingly astonished by his own loving feelings, my suitor declared, “It’s funny, Liz, I don’t even want to manipulate you!”
A stupefied schoolgirl inside the enemy’s foxhole, I, at least, had the presence of mind to ask, “Why would you want to manipulate anyone?”
Based on his blank stare, I’m guessing he suddenly forgot how to speak my language. It was at this point I should have reviewed all my previous conversations with him, noting that they had revolved around his work dilemmas, his separation dilemmas, his family dilemmas, his dilemmas - him.
To his soldierly credit, my foxhole mate did mount a quick, if unsuccessful, defense: Didn’t I get that he was doing me a favour by telling me how he normally operates? Wasn’t I honoured that he had decided to put his manipulations aside for me? I mean, didn’t I get that I was the special girl he would NOT manipulate?
Gosh!
Thank god I had enough wits about me to not be flattered. I’m proud of that. But I’m not so proud of the next bit. Because for no good reason, I cut him some slack. His admission seemed self aware. And nothing seduces me more than self awareness. So, instead of wiping him out on the spot, I suspended my disbelief. In other words, I kissed him. And that’s when he went into full retreat. In less time than it takes to bayonet a gullible girl, I offered up my heart for a good skewering.
What did I learn from the Battle at Mount Manipulation? People say things. But they don’t necessarily mean them.
Always one to try to take a lesson from tragedy, what I gleaned from the B at MM was confirmation of what I consider to be a pretty healthy pattern, a new pattern I have worked hard to create in recent years. While other people prefer to go slowly, attenuating the truth of failure for far too many months before a relationship collapses, I have always preferred my truth delivered by FedEx. I’m with Malcolm Galdwell on the value of first impressions. They happen in the blink of an eye and they’re rarely wrong. So why waste time waiting for the details when you saw it all a flash? You could be out dating someone else instead! Or watching Mad Men!
Battle of the Energies:
Always one to choose adventure over good sense, I agreed to reconnect with a boy from my childhood who lives in the American west. We agreed to meet on neutral, exciting territory. I had already been in touch with him through Facebook for over two years, during which time we shared stories about our dating lives, getting into intimate detail and cheerleading each other with hopes for our respective happinesses.
What I actually knew about this man was this: 1) He studies alternative medicine. 2) He's into Buddhism. Two things into which I read a world of meaning, creating a human being who resonated in perfect harmony with my very own soul. I have nothing if not a really good imagination.
Within the first five minutes of our respective arrivals at the airport, and eager to fill the space of a thirty-year hiatus, Past-Life-Date-Boy (PLDB) tells me that he’s just spent the last ten days at an Ayahuasca ceremony. If you don’t know what that is (I sure didn’t, which is why PLDB explained it to me on the spot), it’s where shamans cast out peoples' demons with the aid of a very powerful and very illegal drug -- Ayahuasca. Turns out PLDB is a shaman-in-training, not to mention a dedicated Ayahuasca imbiber.
Huh.
And then . . . OH. MY. GOD. For real???
Kudos to me, though, because in that moment, I saw the flash. Un-kudos to me, however, for fishing my sunglasses out of my backpack and putting them on indoors.
Before I go any further, I have to admit to something that will become important to the story in minute. Two days before I left for that weekend, I dated someone in Toronto. By accident. When I told this to a friend, she politely said, “Oh, did you slip?” Well, kind of. At any rate, it was exactly the type of thing PLDB and I would have talked about via Facebook. In fact, I was looking forward to sharing the story with him because I knew he’d be thrilled for me. And I knew it would have no impact on our weekend.
An hour later, we were seated in a restaurant where I thought the time was right to lighten the mood. So I said, “You know, I’m so glad you did not arrive with shiny, white running shoes!” I was thinking of Seinfeld. Now I’m no fashion plate, but I do like a man in a good shoe, and PLDB arrived in beautiful brown leather brogues that made my knees buckle. As if to prove my observation was, indeed, funny, I threw my head back and cackled. But what I heard as my head lolled behind me was this: “That’s not funny.”
I immediately returned my head to its starting position and searched his face. Surely I misheard. Surely he was being ironic.
“No. For real,” he said. “That’s not funny.”
So, I stopped laughing. But he kept talking. “How would you feel if I had said that I was glad you were not 10 pounds heavier, or that I wished you wore Tommy Hilfigger, or that your shirt was ugly? I mean, if you are that superficial, Liz, then we really have nothing to talk about. I am a spiritual leader and I spend my time keeping my energy pure because I need to be present for the people who have demons that need casting out, people I am healing, which means I don’t have time for superficiality…” etc. and so on for about ten minutes as I sat there chin trembling, willing myself not to cry.
When he was done, I excused myself and went to the washroom where I did just that. Cried. Hard. Then I returned to the table and apologized. “You know, everything you said is true — superficiality is not cool.” A good beginning, I thought. “I was joking,” I concluded with confidence. I guess he didn’t know me well enough to understand my humour, which is why it’s important to remember that it can take a long time to get to know someone. Or, according to my fast-track approach, my insensitive joke revealed PLDB for the humourless jackass he is.
Back at the B&B twenty minutes later, PLDB says he has a few calls to make. I am in the same room, so I can’t help but hear him warning the person on the other end of the phone not to say the “A-word” (i.e. Ayahuasca). Why is that? Could it be because . . . IT’S A FREAKING ILLEGAL DRUG???
After he gets off the phone, he asks me why I look so tired. Here is my opening. It’s now when I deem it best to tell him about my accidental date, a story similar to ones I have told him on other occasions, ones he has previously enjoyed. This will really break the ice, I think. He listens, a grim look on his face, and then goes to take a bath. The next thing I know, it’s morning, and he’s sleeping on the floor.
Always quick locate the nearest exit (despite the fact that it takes me far too long to use it), I realize I have two very good friends in this city who would gladly put me up. When PLDB wakes up, I offer him the B&B, saying I will cover my half of the cost for the next two nights. But he is one step ahead of me. He tells me texted his friends the night before -- from the bath! -- informing me that he will be staying with them for the next two nights, not offering to cover his share of costs. Then he takes a shower (how did he get dirty between the bath he took before bed and the morning?) When he emerges from his shower, I boldly say, “I think things are going south . . . ” and that’s when the battle begins . . .
PLDB: Well I’m not sure what you expected, Liz. When I arrived, I could see that you were COVERED with someone else’s energy.
Liz: What?
PLDB: No judgment. But I’m talking about the guy you dated back home before coming here. No judgment.
Liz: Oh that? It’s nothing. I mean I don’t know what it is yet. But I thought you’d be happy for me.
PLDB: Listen, Liz, let me tell you something. Your energy is really dirty – no judgment – and I am a spiritual leader who needs to keep my energy clean. You are covered with that guy’s energy from back home, which is also really dirty by the way, and I can’t have that around me – no judgment. I need to stay pure. No judgment.
Liz: . . . I just assumed you had a girlfriend and friends with benefits back home …
PLDB: Sure I do, but the difference between you and me is that I compartmentalize. No judgment.
Liz: (Ohhhhhhh, I see how this works . . . )
PLDB: Listen, Liz, let me give you some advice: when you plan a weekend with one guy, don’t date another guy just before you leave -- no judgment.
And there it is: The Truth. Something I can actually understand — his ego is bruised. Fair enough. So, I apologize for my assumption that just because we live a continent apart and have not seen each other in over thirty years and are not, in fact, a couple, that I thought it would be okay to date another man in my own city. I was less sarcastic in person. In fact, since I generally assume I’m wrong about most things, I actually grovelled.
PLDB: I’m not upset, Liz. This is not about being hurt. This is about your dirty energy — no judgment.
Liz: Um, would mind refraining from using the word “dirty” because, in fact, there IS judgment in that word.
PLDB: Oh yes, I’m sorry. I forgot how important words are to you . . .
Rightly or wrongly, I’m always willing to take responsibility for whatever I have contributed to a situation and, therefore, always willing to put things right, if I can. So, I canceled the MoMA date I made with a friend while PLDB was in the shower because when I told PLDB about it, he asked, incredulously, “Aren’t you even going to give us a chance to recover?” So, I agreed to spend the day with him. And that's how I learned that a day spent with [insert appropriate expletive here] is a day lost.
After breakfast, Mr. Spiritual Purity bought a pack of cigarettes. And throughout the day, Mr. Non-Superficiality peppered his stories with all the people he hangs out with in Hollywood, including Harrison Ford and Melissa Ethridge, as well as casually mentioning the role he’d be getting in Nurse Jackie next season. And all day I did what I do best: I asked him questions about his work, his life, and his thoughts. And he asked me . . . nothing.
Just before the day ended, I posed PLDB a question about a woman he’d been seeing back home. Well, you’ll never guess. Turns out they met at an Ayahuasca ceremony. He was casting out her demons. Also turns out she was some hot, young darling of the Hollywood crowd who, for some mysterious reason, fell in love with PLDB. Huh. Could it have been the drugs??? So, they start dating, but she becomes so addicted to the ceremonies — I wonder why? Could it have been . . . the drugs??? — that her “wounding” surfaces and, guess what? she “dirties” PLDB’s energies. So he dumps her. Surprise!
I tried to find a way to explain my failed weekend with PLDB to myself all the way back to Toronto, but it was a girlfriend who put it most succinctly, “That’s just a drug addict.” Another friend added this clarifying nuance, “That’s just an asshole.”
There’s no question that some poor boy out there -- well, many boys, if we're going to be honest -- are cursing the day they met me, cataloguing all my faults, insensitivities, crazinesses, etc. But that does not make me feel any better about my wasted air miles and the fact that the MoMA was closed the day I finally jettisoned PLDB.
I share with you these little morality tales because I do wonder about dating as an enterprise that demands enormous time, usually more sums of money than I’m comfortable with, more often than not fattening foods, and, of course, exposes one to some truly fucknutty fucknuts. Which is why I like to move things along at lightning speed. I don’t want a potentially time-wasting and fat-making activity to clog my Mad Men schedule for more than a night, even when the show is not scheduled to air again until 2012.
But then comes the dusting off, as always, which I did recently, because I’m a glutton for hope, if not punishment. This time, however I met a man who . . . wait for it . . . asked me a question! On the first date! In fact, he asked a zillion questions that night. And for the past three months, he has asked a zillion more – a quality I have not seen in a man since 1996. Also, he pushes me . . . to excel at the things he recognizes are valuable to me: writing and painting. And although his background is not literary, he has taken the time to read my book draft and give me feedback. Honest feedback.
While I wait for his other, very sexy man-sandal to drop, I am enjoying the peace this dating ceasefire has brought. My new guy does not make declarations, never mind purple declarations, he can't back up with actions, which, so far, have been honest, sweet, consistent, and solid. He has never made mention of my dirty energy, not even when it might have been appropriate to do so (I’m thinking of the minor hissy fit I threw in Mexico when our tennis instructor lobbed my guy all the balls, or so I thought. Turns out, my guy thought I was getting all the lobs. Perception is everything. But he didn’t throw a fit. He put his arms around me and said, “You were so great out there today!”)
If dating dangerously for a year – or ten – means I had lessons to learn, I’m really hoping I’ve learned them. Choosing someone who actually takes an interest in others is definitely worth a few battles lost because it could mean I might actually win the war. Or, even better, change my fucked paradigm completely so that I no longer see dating as the enemy. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves . . .
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