Meanwhile, back in the land of my waning fertility, the blind date was finally scheduled. For tonight.
By text message on Monday and Tuesday, I talked Taylor out of the Peach Pit. While that would’ve been a funny story, there is a point at which I am no longer willing to suffer in order to achieve a bloggable anecdote. He agreed, and then told me he’d be wearing a tie on our date what did I think would that be okay did I think that would look nice and be appropriate…and that he’d made a reservation at the restaurant I’d suggested.
This was all transacted via text message, mind you. Text. I suppose I could’ve picked up the phone, but by that point, I was engaged in a game of brinksmanship.
Also, I was busy.
Later that day, someone (helpfully?) sent me a link to an article about how people who were “successful” at dating were able to frame their “wants” in positive terms, not in negative terms. For instance: Suppose your ex-wife cleaned you out after never working a day in her life. When you phrase how you want a mate, don’t shout about ‘no gold-diggers!’ It’s all in how you phrase it!
I had to shake my head and close the tab on my browser. Did I want to be successful at dating? I suppose that was the first question I had to answer. And then the second question was (and let’s phrase this positively, here), if so, what did (and do) I want?
Later that day, I went back to the article that someone had sent me, just to see what else I was doing wrong.
If you say you don’t want cheaters or liars, it’s like making yourself a ‘mark.’ No one wants cheaters or liars, but if you say it that you’ve been hurt before, it makes you vulnerable them.
Okay. While that seemed perfectly logical, it also seemed completely illogical, like the mere statement that you believed in vampires ushered vampires into your home (which, of course, would mean that you’re stuck with the vicious undead). And if talking about cheaters and liars is problematic for one’s romantic prospects, then I’m toast. Judging by the content of my writing project of the last decade, I’m just…asking for it. I’m like that one Far Side cartoon:
Another sage piece of advice was:
It’s not possible for us to know who we are from a distance. A cheater may not think he’s a cheater. A gold-digger may not think she’s a gold-digger.
This, of course, was horrifying, but true. And it’s really not possible for us to know who we are from a distance. You see me one way, and would want to have a relationship with me based on that long-range view; I have to live in this skin suit and see myself and the world in a completely different way from the inside looking out.
Over this past year, I’ve tried (and not tried) to take a hard look at myself and figure out what the hell I’ve been doing. I’ve looked through old photos. I’ve read through two decades of archived notes. I’ve been trying as best I can to piece together a theory of where things went right or wrong. I suppose that’s the best anyone can ever do in getting a long-range view of oneself, and I’m a total weirdo in even having the resources to be able to attempt it. (Is it lunatic, genius, or pure vanity to have curated such an archive in which to perform this research? I haven’t yet decided).
What I do know, without much research, is this: I am a woman who wears extremely un-sexy pajamas. And I’m just looking for someone who comes from the same classically fucked-up place from which I hail; someone who isn’t going to resent me for being and doing the things that I love; someone who loves me for who I am, where I am, and who can accept that from me in return. Someone who doesn’t mind that I do, in fact, own a bed jacket. (We’re being honest here. And I value honesty above most things.)
Essentially, I’m looking for a straightshooter who isn’t much of a shot. How else will he miss the bummer of a birthmark I’ve got?