Elizabeth is…one jerk away from becoming an evil, heartless bitch.
I’ve been single now for roughly two and a half years, after a thirteen year marriage. I didn’t rush into dating. Instead I took my time to adjust to living alone, and kept myself busy doing all those mid-life, post-divorce things like finding yourself again. With the help of countless self-help books, the purchase of a used MINI Cooper to replace my Mom van, hours of wine/beer/tequila therapy with my closest friends, and proximity to a city with unrivaled live music and dancefloors, I think I have made the transition from married to single with most of my dignity still in tact. It has certainly been an interesting time, and I’ve no doubt made some questionable decisions, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Ok, so that’s not entirely true, but nevertheless I’m pretty dang happy with where I am. That being said, I don’t want to be single forever. Of course I want to meet someone that rocks my world. Yes, I want to fall in love. Short of the perfect man being dropped on my doorstep, this means I have to date. And since I’m a bit of an over-sharer, below is a not-so-short chronicle of my dating escapades, to date.
The first few guys get a pass because they were just fun, no one had expectations, no hearts were broken. They next guy was a six month lesson in: when a man says he’s unavailable he means it, even if his actions speak otherwise. So don’t get attached, no matter how great he dances. That first post-divorce heartbreak was a real kicker. I wanted so badly to feel something again I ignored all the signs and got crushed. After a month of brushing off the dust and avoiding particular bars, I was ready to move on. However, I realized dancing had become too important in my life to risk mixing it with dating. This may seem backwards, because I definitely want my hypothetical partner to dance, but the dance community is just too darn small when things go bad.
Lesson learned: Don’t shit where you eat.
Back in January I dabbled in online dating, something I swore I would never stoop to do. But it was the start of the new year and the ink was still wet where I’d written my rather cliche resolution, “Try new things.” I was frustrated with what my “pool” had to offer and figured, what the hell, why not cast the net a little wider.
I chose the seemingly more respectable, scratch that, the seemingly less trashy, meat-market-looking of the free sites and began creating my profile. It wasn’t long before the whole task took on the feel of designing an ad for a magazine, because really that’s what it is. The first wave of nausea hit as I realized I was the product on display. With that in mind I went and found my best bikini pic, some snapshots in hot little dresses, and a token camping pic thrown in to show my Earthy side.
When I was satisfied with the “ad” I got my best girlfriend on the phone to help me through the process of going live. She had done this before and was ready with tips as to how to maneuver the site, who to respond to, how to respond, who not to respond to, who to block, etc. Paper bag and bottle of wine at my side, I went public. The flurry of messages was instantaneous. Some were friendly and harmless, others were creepy and lecherous, one was downright wrong, “Hey, do you wanna watch me and my girlfriend?” Um, NO. BLOCK. Within minutes I was damn near hyper-ventilating (hence the paper bag) and actually in hysterical, panic-attack tears. I was scared shitless and felt virtually assaulted. Eventually, with the help of the aforementioned wine and the friend on the phone, I began to breathe again.
Over the next few days I weeded through the obvious creeps and found a few potentials. I knew I had to take the plunge and get a first date under my belt soon or I’d totally chicken out. George was chosen and the time and place were set. He seemed genuine enough, despite his rather shallow choice of profile pics: a mouth-watering set of abs. Glass houses came to mind as I recalled the pics I’d included… We met for lunch at a restaurant I suggested based on two things. One, I knew the hostess and planned to have her keep an eye out for red flags at our table. Two, my girlfriend lived close by and could be there within minutes should the need arise to rescue me from a trunk.
I arrived at the location early enough to send out a “I’m here. Have the duct tape and shovels ready” text to the friend, and a text to George saying, “I’ll be the one in the turquoise MINI.” But it occurred to me how silly that sounded, seeing as how I did not plan on staying in my MINI Cooper, so I sent a second text, “Well, I’ll be getting out of it. I don’t plan to stay in it.” However, the capitalized letters of MINI were initially lost on him and I received this response, “Oh my lord, I thought you were talking about your skirt.” Best unintentional first date ice-breaker, ever.
Well, Abs, I mean George turned out to be just that. A pretty set of abs. And if I could have chopped off his head along with his personality it might have been fun. Still, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and we went on a couple dates. When he wasn’t talking about himself and his body he told me how refreshing it was to meet someone who wasn’t jaded. He said the majority of the women he’d come across were so bitter with the world that they typically spent the whole date bitching about men, listing all the things they wouldn’t put up with anymore, complaining about this and that, and spewing anger at every opportunity. Lucky George, I was fresh with optimism. Alas, I had none left for him.
Lesson learned: Judge a book by its cover.
Onward to online prospect number two. Unlike his predecessor, I was pleasantly surprised when he turned out better than his pictures. A few weeks worth of enjoyable, although far from earth shattering dates, and he simply fell off the face of the Earth. No warning, no explanation, no forwarding address, zip, nada, nothing. Alrighty then. Moving on.
Lesson learned: Alien abductions do, in fact, happen.
I gave the online experience one last go, perusing profiles and sending out feelers. But I already had a bad taste in my mouth and couldn’t bring myself to arrange another mystery date. Resolved to meet someone the old fashioned way, I checked online dating off of my list of things to try and deleted my account.
In the next six months or so three men came in and out of my life. The first took me totally by surprise and swept me off my feet. It was someone I already knew but hadn’t really taken notice of before. He wooed me in a way that was at first subtle, but highly effective. For the first time in my life I was being romanced. Romanced senseless, mind you. I was blind to the obvious red flags and fell in head first. A month later it had already crashed and burned. After I came to, I realized what had happened and saw him for who he is. He likes the challenge, the chase, the capture. He never had any interest in commitment. I was so caught up in the moment I willingly became the prey and inevitably got tossed aside when he lost interest.
Lesson learned: I am totally a sucker for a man speaking French.
Feeling pretty rough around the edges, I vowed to keep my eyes wide open from that point forward. I was also crazy busy with work and decided the whole dating thing could go on the back burner for a while. So I stuck with what I knew made me happy and danced as much as I could. My girlfriend and I were out one night and both being pretty tired we decided it’d be an early evening. However, it was Tuesday, “Dirty Blues” night at one of the local clubs. Unfortunately, the band doesn’t get going until midnight. This music speaks to my soul though, and every now and then I’m willing to flush a productive Wednesday down the toilet for the opportunity to dance until 2AM. We agreed if we were still standing we’d go for a few songs. By “standing” I simply mean awake, not as in the opposite of shit faced drunk, under a table somewhere. When I dance it’s about the dancing, not the drinking. There are certainly some beverages here and there, but too many make it damn hard to twirl. And I like to twirl. Anyway, as it turned out, 11:55 rolled around and we were game.
A mere five minutes after our arrival and this bearded lumberjack of a guy sauntered up and announced he was going to marry me. I rolled my eyes and told him, “You’re shit out of luck because I’m never getting married again.” And I went back to talking to my girlfriend. He didn’t take the hint and continued to try to engage us in conversation. I asked him if he could dance. No. Conversation with friend resumed. I danced a few songs with other guys, and by 12:45 my girlfriend was ready to go. The big guy begged me to go talk to him outside, just five minutes he said. By then I knew he was from Mississippi; so am I. We both like lima beans. With these two things in common I agreed to the five minutes. During which time I discovered he wasn’t the dumb lumberjack I took him for, and he really had very nice eyes. I learned other things that should have immediately given me pause, but being the nice, optimistic person I am, I gave him my phone number. The girlfriend was now not-so-patiently tapping her foot about fifteen feet away so I said goodbye and headed home.
On our first date I found out that he smokes. I told him I would have never given him my number if I’d known. He of course said he’s trying to quit. Aren’t they all. Despite this huge deal-breaker, we continued to see each other. I tried to talk myself out of him, but he kept surprising me. This man had organic half and half in his fridge and raw sugar to go with the French pressed coffee he made me. I am apparently way too easy to impress. Two months passed and while I’d come to like him, it occurred to me that I was totally settling (duh) based on a few common interests and grocery items. And as you may have suspected, he didn’t quit smoking. In fact at this point he wasn’t making much of an effort to cut back at all. So, for the first time in my post-divorce dating history, I had to be the break-uper. I’m a Libra. We are all about peace, love, harmony, balance. The thought of telling someone, sorry this just isn’t working, of possibly hurting them, actually causes me pain. I worried myself sick about it for a week. I wrote no less than a dozen drafts of the break up speech, knowing I couldn’t just do it via text, but if I had it written in front of me maybe I could get it out of my mouth before puking. When the time finally came it sucked. He was blindsided and I felt like a heel for dumping a decent guy. But I had to start to respect my own rules and boundaries. Also, a good friend of mine has made me promise not to settle, and the numerous threats he’s made if I do were all looming in the back of my mind. Dirty deed done and there I was alone in the same damn boat again, in the same slowly shrinking pond.
Lesson learned: Set the bar a tad bit higher than organic half and half.
Fast forward a month. Well on my way to being one of the the jaded, angry women George had referred to, I was now firmly rooted in the To Hell With All Men mindset and was mostly happy being single and sane. And then a random Tuesday rolled around. I didn’t have to work the next day so I had a whole dancing circuit planned for the night, starting and ending at the dirty blues bar, with a few excursions in the middle. I had a new dress, and new shoes. I was on a mission to dance and had “fuck you if you get in my way” attitude exuding out of my pores. Within five minutes and literally three barstools down from the last guy, the next contestant gave it a shot. He at least asked me to dance. I looked him up and down and said, “Can you dance?” He claimed to be able to two-step. I hesitantly agreed. He held his own but I had no interest beyond that one dance. While we were on the dancefloor he asked if I had a boyfriend. In response to my no, he asked why not. Without batting an eye I simply said, “Because nobody has been good enough.” At that point I was pretty sure a little of my fuck you attitude had actually stained his shirt and I thought he’d certainly give up, but no, when the dance was over he asked if I wanted a drink. I thought for a second and said, “Sure, I’ll take a Shitty Lemonade,” knowing the bartenders there hate to make that drink. If this guy wasn’t going to give up, I sure as shit wasn’t going to make it easy. After dancing a bit with other people I went and got my drink. Out of courtesy I stayed and chatted through one song. I learned we were the same age and both had two boys. He told me volumes about himself in a very short period of time; he seemed confident and driven. Nevertheless when he eventually asked for my number I said no. He was taken aback and asked why not. I said I was tired of making it easy. However, before I left for the next bar I wrote the address of where I work on a napkin and told him if he really wanted to see me again he could make the effort and come find me there. I figured that’d be the end of him.
Three weeks later he showed up. Turns out, this was his third trip. Apparently I failed to mention I don’t always work on Saturdays… And he wasn’t just driving from the city (a half hour drive), he was driving one and a half hours EACH WAY. Up until then I hadn’t really even looked him in the eyes. I did then, and I told him he had my attention. He bought me lunch. Three hours later we said goodbye and set up a date. It was an epic 14-hour date. He brought up all sorts of topics that are normally considered taboo at such an early stage in the game, but it was comfortable. We shared stories with such ease and the attraction was palpable. Somewhere around hour number eight I looked at him and had the total fairy tale moment where I thought I had just fallen in love. I had never felt that instant melting of walls and all the sudden I was vulnerable and giddy.
We talked on the phone like teenagers (in the days before texting) and went on dates. We made plans that included our kids. My boys thought he was awesome. It seemed to have so much potential. I thought we were on the same page. He even wanted to learn how to dance. Alas, long story short, he “hit a huge financial set-back” and pulled away, said we could re-group in a couple weeks when he was back on his feet. I said I understood, but asked him to not shut me out. That’s exactly what he did. I never heard from him again. With death and jail ruled out I can only assume he met someone closer to home and that was that. Still, how does a person go from “I’m falling for you” to nothing? How do you disappear without an explanation and still live with yourself? I’d rather be told the hard truth than nothing at all. But that takes courage and he obviously had none. Like I told him, nobody has been good enough. He wasn’t either.
Lesson learned: Never trust a guy in jeans and white sneakers.
Here I am with roughly a year and a half of post-divorce dating experience behind me and I have come to the conclusion that dating sucks. Sure it makes for good stories, but holy hell it’s emotionally and physically taxing. I’m dumbfounded, hurt, and yes, finally that angry, jaded, and bitter woman George told me about. Hell, I’m even a gardener; we are the most optimistic bunch out there. Hope always springs eternal. I’m afraid my spring of hope has run dry, and that sucks. I don’t want to be an evil, heartless bitch. Deep down I still believe. But I know now I have to be guarded. My heart and my trust must be earned. I’ve always granted people innocent-until-proven-guilty status, but at this point in the game I’m ready to declare all men guilty-until-proven-innocent. So what if you make good coffee, open my door, speak French, make my knees weak when you smile. Can I count on you? Can I trust you? If so, prove it.