Out of the Dating Shallows
What a bad date taught me about myself.
How had I gotten here? I thought while ordering a second wine at the tapas bar. My date, George, wasn’t having another — he was running the New York City Marathon soon. But it wasn’t just the marathon. Something had faltered between us, a cord had been severed, and my tipsy stream of conversation was not going to bring it back together.
Still, George gamely listened. He was good at that. He had a calm openness to him, and though he had none of the usual things that attracted me — no daring ambitions or interests, exotic travel experiences, dizzying looks (aside from being tall) nor, as far as I could tell from his description, a stunning living space (he didn’t even have an air conditioner), he had something I was lacking that was hard to describe, and if it weren’t for people like him, I wouldn’t even know it existed. It was something like self-possession, or dignity.
He had something I was lacking that was hard to describe, and if it weren’t for people like him, I wouldn’t even know it existed. It was something like self-possession, or dignity.
Yet, it had all started out so auspiciously. I had been walking through Central Park on a warm, early fall evening, adrenalized by an imminent move, and listening to the Dr. Pat Allen podcast. The gruff octogenarian relationship expert held open sessions in Los Angeles, fielding questions from a motley crowd. The days were ending sooner and sooner, and the darkness crashing down had caught me by surprise so, as I headed into the final stretch of my walk, I sped up. On my headphones, a man was asking Pat how to meet women. She told him that he just had to go up to them and ask for their numbers.
Right at that moment, as the speaker grappled with this terrible simplicity, a tall man in running gear, caught up to me. I took out my headphones, and after some chitchat, he got my number. What are the odds? I marveled at this serendipitous collision of podcast and RL. Just as I had reached my apartment a few blocks away, he texted — did I want to get a drink that night? His speed was both off-putting and complimentary. I demurred, and we made plans for the next week.
I was used to people who had big dreams and needed pumping up. George came pre-inflated.
On that first date, in a many-mirrored Victorian-themed bar, George revealed himself to be someone who had his act together. He was direct and friendly, neither too nervous or too suave. He had a passion, running. An advertising job that bemused him. I kept smiling, but inside felt uneasy. I was used to charming people myself, or being charmed. Neither of these options seemed on the table. I was used to people who had big dreams and needed pumping up. George came pre-inflated.
At the end of the night he walked me home and said something like “I never know, do we kiss now?” with a boyish laugh. There was a peck, and I went up to my apartment feeling shaky. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. I was used to leaving dates feeling either sanguine or giddily amused. I rarely fell wholeheartedly for someone, though I could have fun for awhile. I’d had strong emotions for only a few people in my life; some might call those emotions falling in love, but to me, they seemed closer to being entranced.
I definitely wasn’t entranced by George, but I didn’t feel sanguine or giddily amused, either. I felt vulnerable. When describing the date to friends, I kept bringing up his lack of air conditioner, the closest thing I could find to a red flag. But no one gave me permission to cross him off the list for this failing. I was happy and nervous when he asked for a second date, far more than I would be for a first.
And then everything had shifted, about midway through. How had I gotten here? He had seemed so eager. I had maybe complained too much — I was anxious about the upcoming move. I felt as if I was turning from a potential dream girl to a sort of patient as he listened to me ramble. He had to go home early to get enough sleep before running. The running loomed between us, something I realized helped him sort out what was important and unimportant to him.
When he didn’t text again, I reminded everyone about the lack of air conditioner and went on with my life, including the move. As I went about setting up my apartment, I thought about George, occasionally, wistfully. Him and his dignity and self-possession. Soon, I was just thinking about dignity and self-possession and wondering why so few people I was dating had them.
Those people all seemed too quick. People I couldn’t take seriously. Multiple guys who told me they went to therapists to figure out why they couldn’t settle down, then stopped going as soon as they found the next girl. Multiple guys who told me sheepishly they’d had to return pets to the shelter after realizing they couldn’t take care of them. Multiple guys whose response to the lifted Cuba embargo was to hop on the next plane. Multiple guys who I didn’t respect, but somehow followed, willing and giggling, from bar to restaurant to art gallery. They would look good, fun, be entertaining, like a roller coaster ride, but were so fleeting, they might as well not exist. Now I was beginning to realize that I was quick, too. I could quickly be beguiled by a compliment and quickly throw everything to the wind in the name of spontaneity and New York nightlife.
Soon, I was just thinking about dignity and self-possession and wondering why so few people I was dating had them.
I hadn’t fallen in love with George and I hadn’t even crushed on him, really, but I saw through him a different way to get to know someone and to be with someone, more slowly and more honestly. After George, I began to slow down. My dates at the bars turned to solo nights at hole-in-the-walls with books. I tried learning to respond to compliments by breathing, saying thank you, and by listening to the rest of the conversation and perhaps most importantly, by listening to myself, how I really felt, and using that to sort out what was important and unimportant to me.
This story is part of a content series about relationships, dating, and friendship, sponsored by Chorus, the matchmaking app where friends swipe for friends.
