STARTLED BY THE ABRUPT GOODBYE

You know that uneasy feeling when you’re in the midst of a job interview that you thinking is going really well and the HR guy interrupts to say, “All right then,…thanks for coming in”? I just felt it again.

Only this time there wasn’t a job on the line. Just another episode of dating. I’m a seasoned veteran of first dates. I’ve been lucky to experience a few really good ones. I survived a few horrid experiences. For the most part, I’ve sat through a lot of ho-hums. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the chutzpah to cut the conversation in an instant and simply indicate that I’ve had enough—I have other things to do…laundry, a run, a little pre-planning for next year’s taxes.

Maybe this is why so many of my first-coffee meetings last ninety minutes, even two hours. Maybe I shouldn’t take the length of a conversation as a good sign. Maybe we just continue to talk because I don’t have an exit plan and neither does the other poor sap. Hats off to Cody for pulling it off.

Still, it’s an abrupt jolt when you don’t see the end coming. It happened so fast that I can’t quite recall how it played out. I’m pretty sure Cody got up while offering his closing remarks. Nothing you can say will make me linger any longer. We both mentioned how we enjoyed the get together and, yes, maybe we can get together again after Cody’s long weekend trip. Still, I have enough sense to know that only one of us meant what he said.

I hate that kind of ending. When it’s sudden and unexpected, I’m five steps behind the other guy’s processing of what preceded The End. And, yes, I take it as a personal failure. I thought things were going well. I felt an attraction. Weren’t we connecting?

Exit Cody, enter self-doubt. What did I do wrong? How did I blow it...again?

I must have talked too much.

I was boring.

My hair’s too big.

I’m just old and tired looking.

And on that “old” line of thinking, I’m left with a clear sense that I’m too old for this. Another date with nothing to show for it other than another bruising. In that way, I’m more banana than coconut. I should be thicker skinned but I just wasn’t made that way.

As Cody turned toward the door, I knew to stand back. I retreated from the patio to return my mug to the plastic tub inside. He was still in view as I hit the sidewalk. And, darn it, he was walking in the direction where I parked my car. I couldn’t walk in his wake so I turned the other direction, still stunned as my brain tried to figure out a destination for my detour.

I came up with raisins. There was a bargain grocery store a few blocks away and last time I stopped in I was surprised how cheap the raisins were. So that became my mission. Yes, I needed to stock up on jumbo bags of raisins. Somehow that made the end of the date feel that much more humiliating. And because no one on the planet goes to the store just to stock up on raisins, I grabbed a bag of ranch-flavored rice cakes to boot. I’m not sure I’ve ever bought that item before, but let anyone else in the express line conclude that the rice cakes were the craving; the raisins were simply an economical extra.

I walked back to the car, certain that I’d created enough distance between What’s-His-Name and me. I had tangible evidence that my drive into the West End during rush hour wasn’t, uh, fruitless. Only now I don’t just feel rejected; I’m downright kooky.

This endless cycle of first-round dating takes a toll. The only good thing to come out of this latest come-uppance is that I’ll be making a sizable donation to the food bank. It means another shopping expedition because there’s no way I can just unload cheap raisins.

Weirdest. Date. Ever. And apparently it’s all my doing.

YEP, IT REALLY, REALLY IS ME

A hundred coffee dates. Probably more. And I’m no closer to extending dating—can’t even call it a relationship—into a second month, let alone falling in love. Ninety percent of the encounters end after the last drop of the first latte. Probably before the barista has even finished making it.

I craft this blog. I have full control. So it’s easy for me find fault in the other guy. Too this, not enough that. Clearly there’s too much algae in the single gay pool.

But every so often, I look inward. I actually hear myself. Too this? Not enough that?! When did I get so selective?

There was a time when it would have taken next to nothing to stick with a guy. If he showed the slightest interest, I’d hang on until he finally shooed me away. I was a dating gnat.

"Friend of Dorothy" added another layer of meaning in the '80s.

It’s true. I had terribly low self-esteem. As I’d sip my first Tom Collins with a friend at Rage or Micky’s in West Hollywood, I’d rattle off my list of what I was looking for in a man. It was a two-pager, at least. But then some guy would glance at me a few times and, after bowing to glance at my shoelaces, I’d find the guts to glance back. Eye contact. And that basically meant it was a match.

If we actually talked and he said he liked “The Golden Girls”—or that he’d even heard of it—I was his for life. Or at least until the packed thong go-go boys came back from break and their come-hither gyrations refocused his attention.

He could have had me.

I’d have torn up my list and burned it for good measure. I was a low maintenance guy who thought he was high maintenance.

Now all that’s completely flipped. And I shouldn’t be at all surprised.

The brutal truth is that all relationships have become harder for me. I’m an acutely introverted guy who somehow managed to fake acceptable social mannerisms in my twenties. I laughed frequently and notoriously loudly. Within my group, I could even be outrageous. In my thirties, I took cover in an abusive relationship. Feeling trapped and utterly stupid, I pulled away from everyone. And then in my forties I found my way out and escaped to rural living where all my introverted ways came rushing back, exacerbated further by a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder.

Now in my fifties, I’m trying to start over. It’s like going back to junior year in high school, the time when I began to get a clue over How to Be Social. I once again remind myself to smile. I try to carry on the chitchat initiated by the barista or the bank teller or the store clerk. Invariably, I’m the one who shuts it down. The talk is trivial and I can’t sustain it.

I’ve been back in Vancouver for over a year and I’m not sure I’ve made any progress. Weekends come and go. I have no desire to phone anyone. A text takes at least an hour of contemplation or even the whole bloody weekend.

When I do meet with an old friend, it’s hard for me to stay interested after thirty minutes. In my mind, I get critical. I tire of this conversation too and my thoughts wander as I long to get back to the book I was reading or go on a three-hour bike ride. Solo, of course. I don’t want anyone else to slow me down.

It should come as no surprise then that date after date is a failure. As a concept, I’m keen to date. And yet when I actually sit down with another guy, I’m looking forward to getting away. As my psychiatrist noted, “Social interaction takes a lot of energy out of you.” The mysterious piece is that I’m skilled at the conversation. The other person cannot see that I’m drained. That’s why it is rare for a coffee date to end before an hour. Ninety minutes is typical. I continue to listen well enough and to encourage the other guy to talk about himself. I can’t recall ever being the one who says, “I have to go.”

So is every coffee doomed? Is dating pointless? Is it time for me to download solitaire apps on my phone? Or whatever happened to macramé? It was the only thing in sixth-grade art that I was moderately good at. Maybe the world needs more macramé. And I shall find fulfillment.

I know I have my own work to do, but I also know it is possible to find the right guy. All this reflection has helped me realize I still do have a type, only now the list is short. He’s sexy, gentle, flirty, affectionate and funny. These are the qualities that both make me invested and keep me relaxed. With this type of man, I easily shrug off the flaws and I don’t care what we do. It’s just about being together.

I know this because I’ve met this kind of man three, maybe four times, in the past two years. I’d have stuck with any of these men, but alas, I didn’t fit the other guy’s list or there were insurmountable obstacles. I can find encouragement in this. I’m not looking for something unattainable. My kind of mate does exist.

So I’ll continue to squint and skim through the algae. If I keep my eyes open, something surprising may rise to the surface.

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME…REALLY

It’s the copout line for dumping someone. There’s a reason—maybe a list of reasons—to reject the guy, but honesty can hurt or prolong things with denial and an argument. The easy way out is to say, It’s me.

I’m at a bad place in my 
              life right now.

I’m not a good enough person.

I’ve got to spend all my spare time   

cleaning the closet in the den.

(Something may have died there.)

In my last blog post, I turned down a guy after a second date that was no better than the first. Initially, I’d found his opinions too harsh. In his profile and on both dates, he’d acknowledged this as a common perception but dismissed the criticism with a Fuck that. Everyone is too intent on being politically correct. Maybe, maybe not. All I know is political correctness keeps my blood pressure on an even keel.

My gut had been to decline the second date. I’d had enough…heard enough. But occasionally—and, indeed, after the last post—a blog reader has the guts to raise an uncomfortable I Wonder.

I wonder if you’re being too picky.

Oh, how I brace at the comment. (It’s probably why only readers posit this while face-to-face friends and acquaintances keep mum.)

I’m not too picky. I’m not too picky. I’m not too picky.

As if repeating it makes it true. A three-year-old’s approach.

And then I hear Harry’s voice. Harry, aka Billy Crystal, talking to Sally, aka Meg Ryan in my favorite move, giftedly penned by the late great Nora Ephron:

                        HARRY:          There are two kinds of 

                                                 women: high maintenance

                                                 and low maintenance.

                        SALLY:            And Ingrid Bergman [in 

                                                 Casablanca] is low

                                                 maintenance?

                        HARRY:          …Definitely.

                        SALLY:            Which am I?

                        HARRY:          You’re the worst kind. 
                                                 You’re high maintenance,

                                                 but you think you’re low maintenance.

I would contend that I’m a low maintenance date. I have no list. All I ask is that a guy show up on time, dress in something slightly more fashion-forward than a favorite sports team jersey, put away his phone and engage in a genuine back-and-forth conversation. Okay, there’s a physical attraction piece, too, but that’s mostly out of our control. I’d say I’ve been passed over on looks just as many times as I’ve passed. Few of us are objectively, universally hot and by “us” I definitely, conclusively do not include myself.

It’s the conversation piece where things froth or fizzle. And based on all I’ve sat through, eighty percent of fizzled chats come from too much talking, not enough listening. A first date may feel like an interview but it’s not. You’re not trying to cram everything great about you—every trip, every detail of your last dinner party and every itty-bitty dimension of your job—into a roughly forty-minute sit-down.

Don’t forget there’s another guy who showed up, hoping to share an anecdote or a factoid about himself. If you don’t have Barbara Walters’ interviewing skills—for the record, I’d be an arbutus tree—then pause every two or three minutes and simply say, “And what about you?” Order a scone with your coffee so you have to stop and chew once in a while. (You don’t talk with your mouthful, do you? Maybe that’s another of my conditions.)

I should wrap up this post.

If I keep writing, I fear that more conditions will surface.

Too picky.

Am I more Sally than Ilsa? Does my blog leave a trail of damning evidence concerning my unrealistic expectations? Am I too quick to dismiss?

                        SALLY:            I don’t see that.

  

What if there are grounds for a class-action lawsuit against me, brought by the masses of single gay men in Vancouver who have been disparaged and dismissed in this blog without any counterpoint? Am I guilty of a pattern and practice of dating defamation?

Too picky? Me?! I have no reason to be, no right to be. But then I hear a certain movie character again.

SALLY:            Well, I just want it the way I want it.

And, as much as I could pick that apart, it sounds about right.