THE MISSING LINK

We came close.

If I had a list of what I hoped for in a partner, Jim would meet most of the criteria.  Unfortunately, lists are for grocery shopping, not a boyfriend search.  Although Jim is highly educated, politically active (in admirable causes), stylish, an arts supporter and a vegetarian, I am just not feeling it.  It is SO frustrating.  I am tempted to criticize myself, saying I am too picky, I am avoiding intimacy or I am a dating pretender who would rather live as a hermit.  What’s wrong with me?! 

In my heart, I know there is nothing wrong with me...at least not with regard to rejecting Jim.  And, truly, I cannot say there is anything wrong with Jim.  He’s a nice guy.  Still, after a month of dating and wishing for a spark to surface, I know it isn’t going to happen.  Poor Jim is utterly perplexed.  I know he is smitten with me.  He dares to call me “sexy” and “handsome”.  (By contrast, a work colleague today said I look haggard and stressed.)  Yes, love lust mild infatuation is blind.

Despite Jim’s amazing dating résumé, something is missing.  Too often, we engage in parallel rather than intersecting lines of conversation.  I feel that I follow up on things he mentions, but my own words seem to evaporate before they reach his ears.  When he does respond, it is to say something about himself.  I feel my teeth clenching.  That’s surely not a sign of attraction.

As I’ve mentioned before, Jim was born and raised in Los Angeles, a city I am hoping to return to if U.S. immigration would be a little more cooperative.  While I miss much about L.A., Jim’s way of speaking reminds of something that did annoy me.  He is big on name dropping and one-upping every story.  It is intended to impress.  I, however, am not looking to be impressed.  I seek to connect in an honest, authentic way. 

Tonight we met for the last supper.  I am going through a traumatic work situation that has left me feeling vulnerable and questioning my career options.  I dared to share.  He listened and nodded appropriately.  No comments, no questions.  And so we moved on to his training plans for a half marathon coming up in August.  More teeth clenching.  A heaping plate of nachos arrived just on time to give my jaw a suitable outlet.

If anything, the meal affirmed that I was making the right decision.  I walked him to his car and said I wasn’t feeling any chemistry even though I wished it existed.  For a moment, there was a look of shock on his face, but we parted with a quick hug and I strolled back to my vehicle feeling no sense of regret, no pang of despair over being single again. 

It doesn’t mean I’m destined to be a hermit though that wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep all my teeth and avoid wearing flannel.  I have plenty of other things to think about for now.  I can ask and answer my own questions.  Dating is not a priority.

AN INCH SHY OF SHYNESS

I’ve always been an introvert. I’m from a family of introverts, my mother excepted (and overcompensating for the rest of the clan). Aside from seeking a peaceful writing environment, I think I chose my current home because there are fewer people to encounter, meaning fewer awkward exchanges and fewer public moments of uncontrolled perspiration.

I drive into town once or twice a day to get a change of environment for my writing, to run errands, to battle with harmless looking dumbbells (a gym reference, not a lame putdown of the locals). Invariably, I run into someone I know. As I held a very public position for three years in the community, I have many acquaintances (though few friends). It used to be that I would spot someone in the cereal aisle of the grocery store and quickly turn away, deciding Wheaties could wait. I’d see someone approaching in our poor excuse for a mall and I’d stop to gaze intently at a poster, advertising a pottery exhibit featuring a new series of—ooh!—“dip dishes”. At cafés, I could wildly type gibberish during a fit of writer’s block when I’d see a familiar family pull into the parking lot. (Works almost as well as a “Do Not Disturb” placard dangling from my neck.)

And yet I’ve noticed a change this summer. Personal growth! While I don’t necessarily embrace the occasions, I no longer scramble to tuck my tortoise head into a shell or bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. I appear socially engaging. Today, I ran into two acquaintances at my favorite café for writing. We exchanged stories about summer trips. I even extended the encounter with thoughtful follow-up questions (e.g., When will you know you have enough garden gnomes?). At the gas station, a mother and daughter had their backs to me—Did they practice the same avoidance techniques?—but I blurted a greeting and got to hear five minutes of highlights about circus camp. At the library, I saw a former colleague and she filled me in on her campaign to stop the latest minor patch of housing development. The lovely conversation ended a tad awkwardly when I declined to sign the petition, but I failed to shed a drop of sweat.

Turns out my mother needn’t worry so much about me becoming a hermit, the scary old man who hides behind overgrown hedging and only communicates with animals. (Caught and released two moths and a fly from my home last night.) I have not lost all social mannerisms. In public, I now notice more than my shoelaces. It is all so encouraging. I’m almost socially acceptable.

Still, on the ferry, I’ll stay in my car instead of venturing Up with People, thank you very much. Everything in moderation.