I'd like a date: or je voudrais fixer une salade d'épinards

If by “date” you mean a social appointment with an individual with whom there is a shared interest in potentially pursuing an amorous relationship, I’ve not had one in over a year. In the interest of full disclosure, I have seen my X, Donny, a fistful of times, and while those times could fall under the heading of “social appointment,” they didn’t quite meet the rest of the criteria. They were more like social appointments of two individuals between whom there is a shared interest in disengagement.

I have also had quasi-hook-ups with two men. One happened last April with a man who is both in a committed, if elastic, marriage and lives many, many thousand miles away from me. The other took place last August with a man far too young to be taken seriously. While I’ve written about the first hook-up, I’ve chosen not to write about the second because it was a fiasco of such depressing dimensions that I’d prefer not to relive it. I suppose that I did date-like things with both of these men, but though adult beverages and food were consumed, and though walks were taken, I don’t consider them dates. No future, no date, not to my thinking anyway.

A year and a couple months after becoming single, I suppose I’m ready to start thinking about dating.

It is what single people do, or so I dimly recall. They date, or they think about dating, or they do both and think about dating while on dates, especially if the date in question is going horribly awry, like a Seth Brundle teleportation experiment. I do vaguely recall the flush of excitement preceding a date, the purchasing of garments specifically intended for the dating process, an unusual devotion of time to the body in preparation for the date (one that sometimes included the shaving of toes and other depilatory procedures), an increase in anxiety levels leading up to the date, and then a spectrum of emotions that registered after the date, many of which were recounted in agonizing detail with members of the same sex after the date had come to completion.

I remember there was sometimes kissing, the pressing of lips against other lips or various body parts, often with an introduction of tongues and an exchange of saliva. I also recall that often there was more, sometimes followed by breakfast and other times followed by unintelligible excusatory phrases and the mad search for errant undergarments.

I don’t remember many of my dates, and I have had many. My first date with Eff, the man for whom I moved to Gotham, centered on going to a movie theatre to see Purple Rain. My first date with the first of the Twin Peaks was a visit to the Central Park Zoo (an excellent date venue, by the way). I went to Tea and Sympathy, a Brit restaurant on Greenwich Avenue, with C. Donny and I walked along the Hudson and then went to the worst, most fratty bar in the Village. In Boston, I went on a first date with this guy to the beach. We got wet and cold and left early. I went to a coffee bar with a loud talker who nearly screamed his family’s inculcation into a cult for all to hear. There was the one date with the Pulitzer Prize-winning author that derailed when he showed me his bullet hole tattoo located over his heart. There was the very bad date with that horrible little lawyer with the itsy-bitsy penis. And that would be just about all the dates I remember clearly. Not so many.

And yet, a quick systems analysis seems to announce that the date light is a go. I’m over Donny in that I don’t miss him and feel really quite resolved about our relationship. I am relatively sane and moderately content. I’m fairly confident and rather frisky. According to all internal checks, I am ready to date. My therapist has waved the green flag, and we should be off into the wild dating yonder.

The thing is that I don’t remember how. I recollect that dating used to be relatively easy, even when I complained that it wasn’t. I used to float through the dating pool and feel that every backstroke took me closer to the buoy, or the boy, as it were. Now, however, I feel like I’ve forgotten it all. It’s like I was once fluent in French and could discuss Derrida but now I bungle an order for a spinach salad. The waiter, I sense, looks down on me and sneers.

I have lost that dating feeling, in short. I feel odd and out of place, like I’m suddenly twelve again, because everyone I could play with is either far too old or far too young. I can’t seem to recalibrate my desires to reflect the age I am, and when I do meet men my age, either I don’t find them attractive or they’re married, or both. But even were I to overcome the empirical obstacle and find that a social Lotto dropped an exceedingly appropriate man in my lap, I’d most likely walk away single. I can’t recall how to flirt. I’ve lost the language of nudges and half-turns and partially open mouths and suggestive self-caresses. I am aphasiac and overly blunt. I may have late onset dating Asperger’s.

It’s not so much that I’m talking myself out of the dating pool. It’s more that I realize that if there is a dominant culture, I’m not part of it. I don’t conform well. I’m one of those things that is not like the other, one of those things that just isn’t the same. The oddities don’t seem to do well in the dating game. I’m sharp of tongue and quick of wit and though I may try to hold back my sarcasm, it always busts through the dam. I can only plug my finger in the dyke for so long. Plus, I don’t have many measures of culturally defined success. I have a rag-tag history that makes for some pretty entertaining evenings, but for men who want a solid woman with a straight trajectory, it ain’t me, babe. I am one salty, tortuous, tasty bitch.

But the strange thing is that as much as abstractedly I think I might again enjoy dating, I don’t much mind being alone. I am once more discovering that the inside of my head is a pretty fun place to be. It’s fancifully decorated, for one thing, and it’s furnished with many flowered absurdities and a finely functioning parallel universe. I’ve a busy, busy brain, and it keeps me fairly well entertained. It would be lovely if I could meet someone who enjoys it almost as much as I do (though he will never have the full lay of my Dadaist land), but if I don’t, I think I’ll be fine. Which is as weird a thought as I’ve ever had, if not also one as delightful.

Comments

[badinfluencegirl]

i don't feel like i ever knew how to date and now i'm somehow just getting more lost rather than less. hell half the time i don't even know if i'm on a date or hanging with a friend... and guaranteed i have to continue perfecting the stupendously awesome skill of turning men that i want to fuck into lifelong friends.

who fuck other people and ask me for advice about it.

all i mean are men under thirty and over fifty. i'm thirty seven, all i want is someone self sufficient who is not a child and is of a relatively similar life stage to my own.

i've had it with the way younger ones who just aren't ready to be adults and i've had it with ones in their fifties joking about me changing their diapers.

so i guess i less articulately feel your dating pain.

that said, i love my life and my friends and hanging out on the internet or on my couch with the vcr and the latest episode of (doll)house or the doing what i want when i want. i have finally discerned the rollicking good company that is myself and when i get tired of that there's always books.

the only need that i can't seem to satisfy involves someone to cuddle and fuck and call when i get home from work...

[badinfluencegirl]

sigh

all i meet
not
all i mean

[zenoida]

Not that being alone is a bad thing.. or even a genre, but I thought I would just share, that being totally uncompromising and well... unable to do the whole charade thing, can work out. In my last single period, I was pretty god ##### pissed at men, at all the bull shit, the whole pretend and be feminine crap. This was my attitude, and my dear friends told me I'd be alone until I would recreate myself in a softy, flirtier style... But I did meet prince charming. I've never been so happy with anyone, and the dating has never been so much fun (not that danes really date). Aggression. A great way to flirt. (damn, now I sound like one of those women, who think that finding a man equals fullfilling ones life purpose (well, maybe plus having a white wedding and producing offspring, but being single, maybe whilst dating is of course maybe the funnest ancle too. Was actually a bit pissed at meeting prince charming, since I had just prepared myself for all the fun single things I'd do)

[H]

We CG if I'm ever in NY, I'll not date you over coffee and enjoy your quick wit and sarcasm.

[Kismet]

I developed dating Asperger's at puberty. So imagine my confusion when, after 15 years of marriage, I found myself single again. 2 rather enjoyable years were spent wallowing in my own brain. But one day, I woke up and realized I truly needed someone to fuck my brains out. So I awkwardly got out there. Found people to fuck, and then I happened upon a man I wanted to fuck AND spend time with. Now I walk that line between comfort in the fact that I am loved, and regret for the relationship I had with myself. Why can't we have both?

Personally....I think you and Karl Elvis should check each other out...if only so I can live vicariously through you.

Glad you're back...I missed you.

[Doomsayer]

Count me in as a comrade in the confused dating section,in my(not so many)years,i seem to be absolutely horrendous in picking up signals and looking back later where i end up doing some hefty face palming.

ps,I noticed your problem with word,and the attempt to make your "pretty" as good as can be,maybe this site will help out: [url]http://www.computertim.com/howto/article.php?topic=word&idn=2[/url] (hopefully the link will work,not experienced with this blog thing).

[Sabina]

Dating Asperger's! Finally, a term for what I've had my whole life. Thank you.

[Lance]

Kudos for being fine with being alone! There's so much pressure put on people to connect and be part of a matching set, the pressure to date is almost as exhausting as dating itself.

My current take on dating is (because I reserve the right to change my mind as often as I change shoes, which is a lot) if an attractive and intelligent guy pops into my stratosphere and is miraculously interested in me...so be it. If not, I've been pleasuring myself for a long time. And nobody does it better.

[James]

Being - you'll have to take my word for it - an attractive, intelligent, single and dating guy, I can shed a little light on something for the benefit of your readers. CG, my guess is that you already know. We're all in the same boat.

We have dating Aspergers too. Brilliant term for it, by the way. For fellows like me and my friends and colleagues, the gut reaction to feeling interest ranges from mild discomfort to terror, with a side of excitement. I agree with the sentiment that being single is fantastic. I sleep very well, my bed feels huge, my covers aren't stolen, and my mattress topper isn't on the floor every morning. I can wake up for work early and feeling refreshed, and I can work late without feeling guilt for ignoring anyone. I am, obviously, a little bit married to my work, which might be a very important observation but not one that I'll get into right now. In blatant contradiction, I have a deep desire for a romantic connection that will throw my life into chaos. Romance is one hell of a drug - the feeling of it, the desire, the emotional satisfaction - and dammit I want some.

Suffice it to say that the good guys exist in perfectly large numbers, but they can be hard to find for (at least) two reasons. We are thoughtful and sensitive - therefore - terrified of the loss of emotional control associated with the initial pursuit of someone we find interesting. Also, we feel driven to accomplish something career-wise, which takes a serious toll on the free time that others might spend looking.

My best advice for the women commenting in this column is: If you see a fellow who intrigues you, and he doesn't seem interested, it's probably not out of incompatibility or indifference. If he's worthwhile, he's probably just busy, thoughtful, and possibly even a little bit scared of you. Screw the notion that you need to be pursued - just speak up for yourself. Admittedly based on anecdotal evidence only, it is my observation that if a man is not interested or not available, he is more likely to let you down politely and kindly than in the reversed roles. Men don't get asked out nearly so often, and it's incredibly flattering. For that matter, when a girl shows that kind of courage, it's hot hot hot.

all my best, CG. I've been reading you since college and I'm glad you're posting again.