Lessons learned.
It’s Sunday evening, I’ve been waiting for a text all week. I’ll admit that the anticipation is holding me hostage, each ding of the phone prompting a jolt of adrenaline. Every few hours, I’ve admonished my weaker half for getting too invested. For God’s sake, I lecture myself, haven’t you learned a thing? But hope is my achilles heel and the pang remains stuck like a lozenge in my diaphragm. The weekend before, on an idyllic Saturday summer evening, I had a ‘date’ that I would subsequently describe to my inquiring friends as ‘promising’ even as I actively tried to tamp down my excitement. Despite the normal awkwardness of an initial encounter, we had settled into an easy rapport, sharing commonalities, sneaking surreptitious glances at each other as we sipped our $17 designer
cocktails. It was nothing short of a miracle. He’d shown up stylishly dressed, suggested a place other than, “my favorite coffee shop”, and was surprisingly interesting.
Promising was high praise. Experience had conditioned me to expect the worst. Three years ago, after the collapse of a 28 year relationship, I had to learn the ins and outs of modern dating from scratch. The Apps provided a roughshod education. It only took a few months of texting with offshore oil rig workers to figure out that scammers were running amok and that if he looked too good to be true, he was. Fake profiles aside, I wasted another few months on the next type, the titillating texter. Early on, I was smitten by a Michael Keaton look alike who had me on the hook for weeks. Early on he assuaged my scepticism by verifying his profile with an on the spot selfie and I reciprocated. We had a flirty banter that was a little intoxicating. Let’s meet, I posited on at least ten occasions before it dawned on me that he was also a venerable dating archetype – married and bored. No worries, I was getting the hang of it.
In the last few years, I’ve been to every coffee shop within a three mile radius of my home for meet-ups. Each place retains the whiff of disappointment. There, at that spot steadily mobbed by Millennial hipsters, I met a guy who showed up in full spandex biking regalia after a ride that smelled taxing. He bought me an iced latte after already having purchased one for himself. Over there, I met the earnest Firefighter who nevertheless lived out in the woods at least a two plus hour drive from the café. There, the 6’4” musician who towered over me and upon our meeting proclaimed excitedly that I was actually cute, but then subsequently decided I wasn’t worth the drive. Just yesterday, after yoga, I walked past a familiar roastery and noticed the overgrown boy in converse sneakers I’d had dinner with last year who fully admitted that all he wanted was a roll in the hay. He was chatting up another prospect. I fought the urge to warn her. Rainbow crocs in Hollywood, wooly sport coats peppered with holes in Echo Park, and missing teeth in Santa Monica. I’ve endured enough to earn a healthy skepticism.
Sadly, I’ve learned that having zero expectations is a healthy mindset. I’ve learned that texting for any length of time is a waste. I’ve learned that my questions will yield endless stories and that my curiosity most likely will not be reciprocated. I’ve learned that many, many men in their late fifties in LA have children in elementary school. I’ve learned not to let the runaway train of my imagination get the best of me, fleshing out stories to fill the void is futile. I’ve learned that ghosting is commonplace and more importantly, I’ve learned it’s not about me. At last glance, my phone flashed 4:51pm. I’ve been waiting all weekend for a promised second date that hasn’t materialized. I agonize. Should I just hold tight, let him dictate the timeline? Or should I send a gentle prompt that reminds him of my existence. I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. Once again, in what is now familiar territory.