“Love Is A Battlefield” -photo by Summer Olsson (with all due respect to the brave people who have *actually* served)

 

Third in a series. Click here for Part 1, about how I’m using a hookup app to find husband material (and read about my sordid dating history), click here for Part 2, where I learn a life lesson from my worst date ever. Here’s Part 4, where I put forth that age is just number, until it isn’t.

It’s about damn time us single people gave ourselves some credit. I mean, we’re out there on the front lines of this battlefield, right? We’re the ones dating people with questionable hygiene, shaking off every unreturned text, and grimacing through every wedding invitation. No, I’m not going to pretend it’s some noble higher calling, this singledom. It’s not that big a deal in the scheme of things. It’s not Syria. If you’re reading this, you probably have it pretty good. We should all practice being a bit more grateful for what we’ve got. Haha, just kidding, the barista got my americano wrong this morning so I shouted “Steam this, you pissy bitch!” and threw my hot coffee in his pretty mustachioed face. And what does “banned for life” really mean anyway?

For a while my theory was that I had a weird form of invisible leprosy that only other single guys could see. I have quirks and idiosyncrasies, just like everyone else. I’m afraid to hear my own heartbeat. Every time I hear the phrase “underwear bomb” on NPR I giggle. And I sometimes (often) pretend I didn’t hear what you were saying, just so I can buy myself time to come up with a more thoughtful or funny response. Recently, though, I looked even deeper to see what really makes me tick, what really gets me going when I’m attracted to someone, and maybe why things don’t work out in the end. I don’t know what I expected to find, but it wasn’t the dark, foul-tasting thing I eventually uncovered. And then every friend who is single, gay or straight, who I told about it nodded and grimaced: they felt the same way. Bear with me while I set the table for you:

I studied Theater Arts at the University of New Mexico, in Albuquerque (yes, I know Albuquerque is the punch line of a lot of jokes. Shut yer face). During this time I remember having a powerful crush on a man in the graduate program, Tad (all names in this piece have been changed). He was handsome and smart, but there was one problem…he was straight. And had a wife. And a child. This didn’t stop me from pining after him, of course. I never worked up the courage to say hello or introduce myself to him.

After college, I moved to Chicago for three years for a relationship with Mark. When it ended I came back to Albuquerque for year, and during this time, I finally met Tad. By now, however, he was openly bi, and he and his wife were separated. I inserted myself into his life (haha, yeah yeah really funny) and we quickly became involved. Except something wasn’t quite right…oh yeah: Tad had a boyfriend. And suddenly, just like snapping my fingers, the crush on him grew into something else entirely. Out of nowhere, it became romantic feelings. What? I thought at the time, Where the hell did that come from? Despite my misgivings, I maintained a sexual relationship with Tad, and then promptly got my heart broken, because OF COURSE I DID. He’ll choose me as his boyfriend, he’ll fall in love with me because I’m so awesome! Nope, not really, Mike. I had a major misfire on that one.

“Major Misfire” -photo by Summer Olsson

Daniel and I met on Match.com, and there should have been several red flags. He tried to go in for a kiss about halfway through the first date, over the table. He and his friends did blow and other drugs on the regular. But he was the first person I seriously dated after the break-up with Christopher, who I was with for 6 years. I was pretty lonely and vulnerable, and Daniel was cute, spontaneous, and charming. One problem: he was crazy. Like, batshit crazy. He had had a really rough childhood, and of course I thought I could fix him, because all he needs is my love, right? Not therapy, not meds, nope. He just needs my magic penis and that’ll fix him right up.

The first time he introduced me to his friends, about a month or two into dating, we went to his friends’ house for their game night. He had bought a new board game for all of us to play, “Apples to Apples”, although in retrospect it probably should have been “Risk”. It was a pretty fun evening, but then towards the end of the evening I noticed that his friends were commenting on the game a little conspicuously. “Yeah, this is a great game.” “Yup, it’s a keeper, we’re playing this again.” “Daniel, you should play this game for awhile.” Wait wait wait…they weren’t talking about the game. Those shitheads were talking about me in code. Apparently (and this was sheepishly confirmed later), Daniel would buy a new boardgame for every guy he dated, and this let his friends comment freely in front of his date about how they felt about him. I was the first guy to figure this out. After we broke up, I realized: holy crap, his closet was positively STUFFED with boxes of barely-played board games! Game over, man, game over.

“Friendly Fire” -photo by Summer Olsson

Dating in Portland is great. I’ve dated a few really sweet, nice guys so far…but ran into one bullet I wish I had dodged. In Los Angeles, dudes could get away with being dicks, but here in PDX the dating pool is a lot smaller. You would think that guys would be on their best behavior. Nope, not Jerry. In the beginning, it was great: our texting chemistry was awesome, and we finally met one night while we were both out and about with our friends. He was funny as hell and sharp as a goddamn tack. He invited me to his place, we ate and chatted…and then made out and spooned. The next morning I got up, walked a couple of miles in a beautiful misty Portland morning to the closest MAX stop. It was on. Or so I thought.

We met later that week for lunch, and it was great. We made plans for dinner, he flaked, promised to call, and then…nothin’. I texted him a couple of times. No reply. Okay, no big deal, good luck with your journey. Some dudes don’t have the emotional intelligence to say “Hey, sorry, no chemistry on my part”, or even “Hey let’s just be friends”. I’m far, far from perfect (Me, over text message to a guy recently: “Hey buddy, if you want to vent I’m a great listener.” I fell asleep right after that as he texted away), but I try to be clear if there’s any confusion or uncertainty on the other guy’s part.

Six weeks passed, and then a seriously charming text from him. In Morse code. The translation? “Can I take you out sometime?” At this point, I should have said no. But I soldiered up, donned my flak jacket, and left my foxhole: “Yeah, when are you thinking?” We had a really fun dinner, then continued the date at a Tiki bar. We went back to his place, chatted a bit, and then I went in for the kiss. Suddenly, after about 30 seconds, he pushed me away, somewhat forcefully. What? “I don’t like that.” Uh, WHAT? “Um, ok. Should I go?” He didn’t even make eye contact. “Yes.” I left in shock. What the fuck just happened? Why did he even invite me in? What. The. Fuck. is wrong with these boys? No, I don’t think he owed me anything at all, and that would be creepy if I thought an invite into his place gave me permission for anything. But that felt like the weirdest, most random way to reject someone.

“Catching Flak” -photo by Summer Olsson

Wait just a damn minute I thought, driving home through the streets of Southeast Portland, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I do this, time and time again. I give guys chances when clearly they’re not deserving of them. The minute they show interest, I’m outta there, but when they’re absent, either bodily, or emotionally, or geographically, my need for them kicks in. It happened with these three guys, sure, but then I ticked off the guys I had strong feelings for in my lifetime, one by one. It started with Andrew in high school, the cello player to my upright bass, who was my first big, unrequited crush. He couldn’t have been less interested in me. Then Tad, then Mark, who I ended up with for three years, but he was originally far away, in Chicago, so he was physically unavailable. Daniel. All of them. There’s a common denominator.

I kept driving, shaking my head. This is a pattern. You keep doing this. “Christopher”, yes we spent an incredible six years together, but my desire was kickstarted by the fact that he was my supervisor where we worked. Kevin, because he was involved with someone else. Holy shit, you have to stop. Please stop. Think of something else…puppies. A pinata full of cats. Fight Club for Furries. This isn’t working. Unavailable, every one of them, in some way. Isaac, because he was distant and cold. Jerry. And finally ending up most recently with Joe, who was emotionally unavailable to an extreme. Little surprise that his rejection forced me to drink so much boxed red wine that I may as well have cut open the winebag like a TaunTaun and inserted myself into it face the darkest part of my past, and fix it. After him I was pretty damaged, and pessimistic for my romantic future. I almost changed my OKCupid and Scruff profile names to “MsHavisham503”.

And that’s why I’m writing this today. I’m making a contract with you, dear reader. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m going to stop pining after dudes who won’t give me the time of day, or who are emotionally unavailable, or who play hard-to-get. I’m all about the slow burn, but I’m a grown-ass man. I should be able to tell by now when a dude isn’t that into me. What do they say is the definition of crazy? Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result? Well, I’m getting my head on straight, finally.

No more chasing after assholes, and unavailable guys, and dudes who don’t know how to gracefully reject someone. I know perfectly well what it looks like when someone wants my time. Love is a battlefield only if we put ourselves in the line of fire. I’m putting down my gun from here on out. The war is over.

“War is what happens when language fails.” -Margaret Atwood

“Mission Accomplished” -photo by Summer Olsson

Click here for Part 1, about how I’m using a hookup app to find husband material (and read about my sordid dating history), click here for Part 2, where I learn a life lesson from my worst date ever. Here’s Part 4, where I put forth that age is just number, until it isn’t.

Also, here’s the Date With Myself, and Happy Valentine’s Cray.