AttentionDeficitDatingDisorder

Dates Disappear

Is it me? Or is my enthusiasm short lived? After a second date with Flossie where we split the bill, he didn’t walk me to my car in the dark after a scary movie (Girl with the Dragon Tatoo), and I had trouble understanding his words because he mumbles and has a thick accent – it was so thick I thought he was hard of hearing, but no. I’m thinking he gets no third date. Not that he’s called. Not that he’s texted. Not that he’s asked.

On Saturday morning over brunch on the terrace of Manzana in Lake Oswego with two former friends and colleagues, I described my dilemma. One friend, who I will really miss, ever insightful, M., asked me an outlandish question: well, what are you looking for? You are moving.

True dat. And while this question may sound obvious and even fair, it struck me as crazy and poignant. What am I looking for? Am I supposed to know? M. and I decided that there could be two categories and there are not often transferable: romance/excitement and marriage/partnership. But wasn't one supposed to lead to the other? I argued this point with her, while understanding the rub. Often the men who are exciting are egocentric, jerks, idiots, louses, or dumb and then there are the socially inept ones who make me feel sad, and somewhere out there are some gems in the rough, some men who are just lovely, perhaps not urban legend after all, those overlooked fellows.

Still, M. may be as right as the sky is blue, but in my heart the idea of settling doesn’t thrill me. What are those women’s lives like? The ones who marry for security, who don’t feel the juju? Are those the women I see with streaks of gray in their hair, baby slings smooshing their breasts, waiting in line at Albina Press? Milk stains on their tunic? They have the guy and the kid but they don't look very happy. Mostly, they look tired.

Perhaps. But I still can’t concede that settling leads to anything but boredom, sex on Sunday mornings only, and long games of Scrabble. Wait a minute: it’s not sounding half bad now that I write it. But I will always long for sharp conversation, verbal sparring, a dry wit. And see, look how far it has gotten me.

Later that same day, my friend, D. invited me to a Yelp event at Departures, on the rooftop of The Nines Hotel. Free wine, cocktails and free food, fried chicken on sticks, beef onion skewers, watermelon, cherry, basil thingies. The theme was nautical. In the elevator I immediately befriended a Gaysian (I love this word, K.) and up on the roof D. and I chatted mostly with each other.

And of course another day goes by that I don’t hear from Zeke (consider re-naming him Freak out of sheer disappointment/rage), the too smart, too cute, possibly married man from Pendleton who must be curling himself into a blankey as I write this. While at Lovejoy Bakers Sunday morning A. and I googled him on her Blackberry and I nearly lost my vision looking at the screen but was grateful to find out not too much information about him. However, I am up front with myself about this: I may not be the best judge of character. And in my defense, it takes time to peel away the layers of getting to know someone. I can be too trusting. I don’t go out on dates and try to search out the lies. And yet, three separate women suggested Zeke may be married. I put that in the pathetic category, by the way. If you’re going to have an affair, stumble into a bar like a normal person, don’t put all your junk on display on-line. Advertising on-line for an affair? You look like a tard.

A short anecdote:

Guy looks at me on a dating site and his photo is familiar, says he lives in Brooklyn. I write to him, we figure out he friended me on myspace a million years ago. I recall that he lives in Kansas so I ask him when he moved. Oh, he writes, I haven’t moved. I still live in Kansas, but I travel to Brooklyn about once a month or so and by the way, my profile says I’m 38 not 44. When I told my mother this story, I tried to be rational, hey, what’s the difference, 38? 44?

Her response? 6 years.