SHOWING HIM THE EXIT, AGAIN AND AGAIN

Here’s how not to begin a relationship.

Tell the guy, straight away, that you’re moving. Not something local, but two thousand miles away. See Johnny run.

But he doesn’t. For whatever reason, he plays along with the temporary charade. Heck, the move is two months away. Maybe he’s just playing the odds. Most relationships don’t make it that far anyway. Not in the age of swiping left. Not when messages continue to come in on OkCupid, Plenty of Fish, Match.com. Not when there are ample opportunities for hookups on Grindr, Scruff, Manhunt and Squirt. A week or two, maybe three. A chance to have a companion join you to try out that hip Thai restaurant your friends won’t go to because they prefer sushi and who pays twenty-five bucks for pad thai anyway? Surely moving on will come before moving.

Except it doesn’t. So, go figure, this dating thing has legs.

But keep talking about that move. Mention the comprehensive rental sites you found online for your future city. Throw in repeated references to issues with booking the movers, offer daily updates on packing up your condo, recall a couple of great cafes you discovered in your new city while scoping out possible neighborhoods during a trip there in January. Surely the fling will wind itself down. If Johnny won’t run—maybe he’s got a lingering knee injury—he’ll at least have the sense to turn and walk away. Hell, passing time on Twitter would be a better investment.

But Johnny misses every chance to say goodbye and cut his losses. (Are there even any losses?)

During the entire time that Johnny keeps hanging around, agreeing to yet another date, pepper the poor guy with all your baggage. Go easy at first. Share that you’re a vegetarian. That’s not technically baggage, but it’s sent many a suitor on his way. (“So you eat chicken, right? Fish?”) Let it sink in that the whole ordering Chinese food thing just got impossible. No sharing the Mandarin Mu-Shu shredded pork. Or the Szechuan beef. Or the barbecue pork buns. Chop suey is hardly a palatable consolation. Who really wants seconds of bean sprouts?

And yet he still eats with you. “I don’t mind vegan spots,” he says. Oh oh. That’s a clear sign he’s thinking of hanging on. The ones that stick around into the second month always profess to be cuisine-flexible. They make a point of mentioning every time they prepare a vegetarian meal at home. (“Pretty much. Except for the bacon.”)

So Johnny hasn’t run. Nor has he walked. Apparently that GPS feature on his phone isn’t working and who can get around without it these days? “West” is nothing but a rapper’s last name.

Kick things up a notch. Talk about the meds you’re on. For depression. Actually, for being bipolar. Wait for it...he’ll walk. Whichever direction. There’s always Uber. But, no. Johnny says, “I’m okay with that.” Repeat the diagnoses, adding “really, really” before bipolar.

Johnny stays. Forget all that’s messed up with you; something’s gotta be wrong with Johnny. Maybe he’s just slow at processing. Maybe he prefers to break up by text. Ghosting’s become quite normalized these days.

Johnny texts. Johnny phones. Johnny FaceTimes.

Talk about your eating disorder. Go into detail about the extended hospital treatment last year, followed by the stint in a group home. Make it clear that you made no progress. Still messed up. Again, “really, really” messed up. Listen as Johnny calmly asks questions. Non-judgmental ones, just seeking to understand.

What the hell?

In another week, disclose the doozie of all doozies, the deal breaker—talk about your time locked in a psych ward. Twice.

Still Johnny stays.

There’s nothing left to do but to channel an epidemic. Sure, it dashes the whole moving plan, but make it clear that staying in the city is just a default. It’s not about the relationship. The six-month lease doesn’t prove commitment, especially when you share that the landlord won’t impose a penalty if you bolt after five. Let it be clear. This is temporary. The whole world is on hold.

The relationship waddles past the two-month mark. There’s still a newness to it. Plenty has been (over)shared, but maybe there’s still some googly eyes at play. All the quirks have been disclosed, but they haven’t really shown themselves. By gosh, maybe whatever this thing is has a future. For god’s sake, don’t be a leech. Give the guy some space. Don’t be one of those doomed gaga couples that abandons time with friends and spends all their free time together. Get out. See people. Maybe even dash off for a weekend away on your own. Attached, perhaps, but with that fierce independent streak intact.

F*ck you, COVID-19.

No friends. No getaways. Not even dinners out in which the waiter is an extra person to converse with. (“So you’re a full-time university student, too? How do you manage?”)

Make it just you and Johnny. He’s your Plus One to everything. Except there really isn’t anything other than outings to see if they’ve restocked flour in the grocery store and to search the drugstore for that new woodsy spruce-scented antiseptic someone mentioned on Facebook. It’s just you and Johnny and Netflix.

And walks. Lots of walks in areas strategically chosen where there won’t be other people. Keep that Johnny-and-you-against-the-world-and-all-its-germy-germs thing going.

Cross the three-month mark and watch as it still goes on. The virus,...Johnny (actually, Daniel),...the wonder of it all. It’s yet more proof that I know absolutely nothing about relationships.