An Abundance of Matts

In the world of dating, there’s only one name for me.

A dear friend had an a-ha! moment on the phone a few nights ago—

“Your situation is just like An Abundance of Katherines” she said.

And then she explained the basic premise of the book, by John Green— that the main character has only dated girls with the name “Katherine,”— 19 of them to be exact— and in each instance, he was dumped.

The conversation that ignited this comparison was centered around my current relationship; the giddy revelation that I’m happy in it; and the fact that his name is Matt.

I haven’t dated 19 Matts, but I have dated quite a few— enough that it’s become my accidental “thing.” Everyone has a “thing” and mine is Matts. I haven’t been good at Matts, but I’ve been really good at finding them. Or, they’ve been really good at finding me.

Even before dating was an active verb in my life (I was a late bloomer), I had crushes on Matts and sometimes they had crushes on me.

There was a Matt in the 8th grade who revealed his interest in me at a school dance. My friends, excitedly: “Oh my god! Matt likes you. He totally wants to ask you to dance!” And his friends, cool bro style: “yeah! Go for it duuude!” (Or whatever the teen speak was at the time). But Matt got cold feet and hid from me for the rest of the dance, and subsequently, for the remainder of the school year.

In High School, there was the Matt who played baseball and was also a wrestler. I thought he was hot, despite the fact that he spit in empty soda bottles all the time for weight management reasons (wrestling is the grossest sport). He definitely knew that I liked him, and he definitely did not return my sentiments…there’s a reason they call it “a crush.” It damn hurt.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that Matts returned and in full-force. There was “Matt the First”— the aspiring director neighbor who inconsistently switched back and forth between hot and cold, but consistently kept me at an arm’s distance, even after we established the “boyfriend/girlfriend” thing. He insisted on introducing me to people as a “friend” (ouch). It didn’t take long for him to break up with me. Then, after a 7 month break, a second round of dating, and ten thousand fights, I broke up with him *And cue more fights* And then we were just broken.

There was the Matt who was an Assistant Writer on a Late Night show, who freakishly resembled Matt the First, and who did a rabbit-in-a-hat disappearing act after our second date. It might have had something to do with the fact that I had too much wine that night and went on and on about “the Matt who got away,” even going so far as to say: “you remind me of him.” Bad…bad…just all sorts of “girrrrl oh, no you di’in’.” Oh yes I [stupidly] di’id.

The next Matt was a bartender who was hot and took me on fun dates and also to the beach. I got burnt; then bored; and things quickly fizzled out unceremoniously. Though, I avoided the restaurant he worked at like the Bubonic Plague for over a year. Admittedly, it was harder to let go of their steak sliders than him.

At this point, I noticed a pattern: dating people with the name “Matt”= no bueno. It was obvious that the kismet Gods were trying to tell me something: “don’t date Matts.”

And yet, the Matts of the world could not be avoided. They hung out in sports bars, ate at restaurants, attended pool parties and barbecues, and their cousins’ weddings… They were everywhere, taunting me, like a giant Snickers bar when I’m watching what I eat and the only thing I want is chocolate. Sometimes the guy would be really cute or awesome or both, and still, when the conversation veered towards—

“Hey, so, you wanna…”

“NO!”

I just couldn’t do it. Not again. Not to them. And certainly, not to myself. I was done with Matts. Then done with dating, period, for awhile.

After a long hiatus, I got back on the wagon and started meeting…Chris’s. “Thank God!” I thought, and probably aloud. “There are other names in the world!”

There was the pop artist surfer who reminded me of a grown-up version of Dennis the Menace (looks-wise). Before that there was a famous contemporary singer’s brother….and then…

As [un]luck would have it, I met another Matt.

At this point, you’re thinking: Heeeere we go again! Mind you, a few years had passed. Plus, I knew that writing someone off because of their name was silly, not to mention, would severely limit my options. So I gave him a chance, moved into girlfriend mode faster than you can post a Facebook status…and quickly realized I was a “replacement.” He was still in love with the one that came before— something I understood and empathized with better than anyone.

So another Matt hit the dust. Just like that. Poof.

At a glance, my unfortunate Matt experiences might seem like self-planted time bombs. I willingly chose to date them, ignoring my track record. But each of these experiences taught me some very valuable lessons:

1. The expression “don’t shit where you eat” applies to neighbors, too.
2. Don’t date Entertainment Industry or “insert aspiring artsy profession here” guys who are in their twenties.
3. And again, but literally, don’t shit where you eat.
4. Don’t date people who are freshly out of a serious relationship. Even if they tell you they’re over their ex, they’re probably not, or at least, not over their time and experiences shared with them.

I discovered that I’m not cursed. The plethora of Matts in my history book is merely coincidence. The reasons things didn’t work out with them have nothing to do with their shared name. There were red flags— which I have since learned to look out for and avoid. There were incompatibilities, scheduling conflicts and in a few instances, gosh darn timing. Ultimately, in each case, it was apparent that we weren't right for each other.

So I’m dating a Matt again. Though, in my mind, he’s unique. He’s an incredible man, but out of respect for his privacy and our relationship, I’ll leave it that. We could hate each other a month from now, and I still won’t think, “it’s because his name is Matt.” It will be for reasons that obviously just mean we’re not right for each other in the long term.

Or…things will continue down a wonderful path, and one day, we’ll look back with a laugh and wonder if maybe the Universe was trying to tell me something after all— that I was in the right church but the wrong pew. And all I needed was a bit of time and patience to find the right one.