NO TIME FOR ROMANCE

We all know someone who persistently proclaims, “I’m not looking for anyone. I’m happy being single.” And yet, after a glass of wine, that same person is bemoaning the fact there aren’t any decent guys out there to date.

That’s me on a good day. Usually I skip the opening declaration of denial and launch right into a whine before the wine. Nobody on the dating sites. Lame messages if anything (“how r u”). Zero returned eye contact in any venue. If you’ve read my blog at all, you’ve seen the posts, so often a slight spin on the same old pity party.

Sorry about all that.

My formative (non) dating years were spent watching and rhapsodizing over Meg Ryan movies. (I really miss her.) And just when I’d finally gotten past repeated plays of Eric Carmen’s “All by Myself”, Celine Dion went and remade the friggin’ song. When audiences turned their backs on romantic comedies, Mindy Kaling masterfully paid homage to them with “The Mindy Project”.

There’s always been something to stoke my everlasting aching for a love of a lifetime. Even now, the only series I’m regularly watching on Netflix is an Australian import called “Offspring” that I’ve heard absolutely no one talk about. It seems that main character Nina Proudman’s anxieties and fumbling and bumbling over dating are solely for my benefit. (The show has seven seasons and, as I am apparently the only human on the planet who lacks the binge watching gene, I’m now tortoise-ing my way through season two. Plenty more bonding fodder to come.)

But last night, as I drove into the suburbs on my way to my first Swedish language class in hopes that I’ll one day have a larger vocabulary than this guy, I realized that I was feeling less burdened, less edgy even. No, it had nothing to do with a little something that happened last week. (Pshaw! I don’t think I’ll ever know what people are talking about when it comes to endorphins.) It’s just that I can truthfully say for only the second time in my adult life that, yes indeed, I have no interest in a relationship for the moment and, by golly, that “moment” is going to last at least three to six months.

The first time I felt this way was back in 2004, after I’d ended a seven-year relationship and had to wait many months for housing renovations to be complete before we could finally sell the house. Once a SOLD sign appeared on the front lawn, I fled to rural British Columbia to be free at last.

Single and free.

I wanted desperately to find myself again. I wanted to go back to doing things that interested me and me alone. I’d like to think I had at least a year before the pining started anew and an oldies ditty by The Osmonds started dancing about in my head. (Yep. The “Geek for Life” sticker belongs smack on the back of my black pleather jacket.) In reality, my sabbatical might have only been a few months. What I’m clearer on is how refreshing it was to completely step away from all thing pertaining to romance. There was a strong sense of self-satisfaction and a near giddiness, the kind I only thought came with, er...love.

I didn’t give up on relationships immediately after visiting Toronto in August and deciding that I would make the move come the spring of 2020. In truth, I wasn’t terribly excited about it. I was simply being pragmatic. Things weren’t working in Vancouver; twenty-five years is long enough to give a city a shot. Being bound to Canada and knowing that I need to live in a large city, Toronto was basically the default option. (Je suis désolé, Montréal. If only my French were better.) With the move still months away, I told myself to remain open to something coming my way in Vancouver.

Indeed, I looked at my dating profiles again. I updated photos. I did online searches each month. I took prolonged pauses, carefully reading profiles before ultimately deleting rare messages so succinct they were tantamount to a beer belch. “Hey.” “Nice profile.” Wassup?” (I’ve gone ahead and inserted capitals and punctuation just to keep my brain in check.)

There was a moment in November when I thought those romantic comedy writers in the sky—Is that you, Nora Ephron?!—were actually throwing me a bone. I’d exchanged a couple of messages with Peter, a relative newcomer to Vancouver (from Toronto), and we agreed to meet on the seawall, by what I referred as The Happy Statues. I could use a good omen, after all. The installation is actually called “A-maze-ing Laughter” by Yue Minjun and, as I arrived early, I read the accompanying message etched in stone: “May this sculpture inspire laughter, playfulness and joy in all who experience it.” Yes, please. Let that vibe rub off on me. I was relaxed and smiling before the date even began. As I turned away from the sculptures, there was Peter with a broad smile and gorgeous blue eyes, his arms outstretched for a warm opening hug.

“Shit,” I thought. “This could change everything.”

For the next four hours, we walked and talked and then sat and talked back at his place. To be sure, he talked far more than I did. He seemed to be a blurter, sharing all sorts of things that are no-nos in the First Date handbook. At first, I attributed it to nervousness, then I figured that was just his way. As I finally walked home after declining his offer to whip up a vegan dinner, I realized his oversharing had exposed a lot of red flags but, more than anything, I was amused. I sat up late that night, sitting in my darkened living room, staring out at the Vancouver skyline, the lights having an extra twinkle as if to say, “Not so fast.” Maybe my life would actually play out like all those romantic comedies, Mr. Right appearing in the eleventh hour. Yes, I decided. I’d be open to it.

Alas, over two more long dates, Peter verbalized more and more red flags. It began to feel not like a romantic comedy but one of those “Candid Camera” gag shows. Watch the unsuspecting listener squirm with each outrageous statement. After the third date, I was again up late in my living room. I couldn’t put aside our fundamental differences, not just in terms of politics but regarding morals and ethics. How quickly I’d gone from smitten and amused to disappointed—repulsed even. I didn’t want to date this guy. I didn’t even want to offer the “Let’s be friends” tag while ending things. If this was My Life as a Romantic Comedy, I was seeing what happens after the final credits roll. Boom!

If that was the eleventh hour, this now feels like the twenty-third hour. I’m in no mood for anything to mess with my plan to move on. I fly to Toronto next week to explore various neighborhoods to see where I may want to focus on finding an apartment after my condo sells. I have a growing To Do list for winding down and wrapping up my Vancouver days. Even if I should face plant while running on the seawall and Ryan Reynolds’ doppelgänger comes to my rescue, I’ll simple accept his hand as an assist to get up, thank him and then brush myself off, turning away from that glorious smile and limping in the other direction. Wrong time, wrong place.

I parted with the final wisps of hope for some sort of Vancouver-based relationship during my three-week solo road trip across the western United States in December. In many ways it turned out to be a tortuous farewell to three decades of living on the West Coast (adding in my five years in Los Angeles). Lots of hopes, dreams and relationships that failed or fizzled. Too much time with nothing but the car radio and the local station of the moment playing Maroon 5’s taunting “Memories” yet again. Right up until

the penultimate day, I was filled with woe. At long last, I thrust my free hand forward toward the windshield and shouted, “Move on!” The past had been agonizingly processed, a virtual memory box of sorts, plenty dinged up and dented.

Life is on hold for now. Perhaps this is a welcome breather. The future starts in six months. When July comes around and I say that I’ve had no dates this year, there won’t be a trace of sadness. I’ll be able to say, in my lame Pee-Wee Herman voice, “I meant to do that.” Maybe Pee-Wee comedies should have been my cinematic fare all along.