Posts Tagged: dating

mismatched or something

Early in the week I stop on my way home for something to eat after working late.  About halfway through my meal a couple sits at a table nearby.  They seem mismatched, both in size and style.  I check myself for making this judgement; after all I’d like to think I’m deep enough to remember that human connections have nothing to do with size or style; that they’re made up of much more interesting and mysterious things than that. 

Still, humour me.  He looks younger than her, at least by way of style.  He looks to be the kind of guy who shops at the mall for clothing and assorted electronica and other boy bling with his buddies.  That kind of guy didn’t exist when I was his age, in my little world anyway.  Boy bling was only popular among the white polyester pants and open shirt set of my parents’ generation; and electronic toys came in really large boxes with really large woofers and tweeters that took up whole corners of living rooms or was installed in the doors and rear windows of the shaggy-haired owners’ beat up Monte Carlos. 

This guy has perfectly trimmed hair and a nice shirt and expensive looking jacket and has just set his expensive phone on the table after checking for messages.  The gal is not the kind you’d imagine our guy and his buddies cruising at the mall. She doesn’t look like she goes to malls much.  Her hair isn’t modern; neither are her clothes. She doesn’t set a phone on the table upon sitting down. 

But it’s not the appearance of the two that gets my attention, it’s the expression on his face: a bland smile, which is not a smile; the kind of face you wear on a first date when you’re trying to hide your disappointment, trying to pretend you’re up for a good time when really you’re counting the minutes to the moment when you can call an end to the evening and chalk it up to experience.  His eyes match the insipidness of that not-a-smile, trying to look at her as if she were somehow interesting but seeing through her instead.

I can’t see her face but I expect it is either (1) wearing the same bland mask of resignation, or (2) wearing a face of an eager, insecure not-a-smile, not quite covering a furious search for something clever to say.

She takes a long time to order a drink and the guy and his bland not-a-smile are patient as the gal discusses options with the server.  I'm taken back to a time when I was about 15, sitting in the corner of a car with a bunch of kids having skipped school on a gorgeous June afternoon.  We stopped at a drive-through window and I ordered a large pop because I was thirsty but was mortified to discover just how large the large pop was, and I spent the rest of the glorious June afternoon feeling miserable and embarrassed about having ordered a bucket of pop (no doubt puny by today’s standards) and thinking I must look so ridiculous.  Of course the only thing that made me look ridiculous was the embarrassment over a stupid cup of pop which nobody noticed.  That moment of insecurity ruined the experience of the afternoon which should have been fun, with boys and skipping school and early summer and all. 

My mortification over that pop is probably the only thing that keeps that memory alive in me.  And what gives me compassion for that girl who seems to be trying hard to order the right drink.  After she finally makes her decision, he orders a craft beer in a fancy bottle without hesitation.

I can’t bear to watch as she considers the food menu and turn back to my book, ironically, 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life, a memoir by Kristen McGuiness who embarked on 51 dates in 50 weeks.  Looking up now and then I see the couple’s conversation slipping in and out of the air between them.  When it’s not sliding off to the floor in a heap, the talking is quiet, serious, polite.  He nods kindly at something she says and then it slithers away again.  Between bites she watches the filler content running on the hockey channel right above their table.  He looks around for something to be interested in. 

No doubt I’m in tune with the couple because of this book I’m reading which is all about a whole bunch of first dates.  I’d heard the author interviewed on the radio a year or two ago, and quite possibly it was she who inspired me to embark on my own Year of Dating Fearlessly.  Certainly I’ve had my share of bad first dates, more of them than good ones and like McGuinness I was searching for some kind of flaw in me that was hindering the success rate. 

In the end, my year of dating was more successful than hers – on one level.  What we both got was a little more self-understanding.  For me, it was a reaffirming of my awareness in knowing what I want and what I don’t want and being secure with that.  I’d venture to say that wouldn’t be far off from what I knew back when I was 15.  At least when I wasn’t agonizing about what boys were thinking about my drink choices. 

As I ask for my bill, things seem to be warming up, the conversation more animated and relaxed.  Maybe it’s the drinks loosening them up a little. I’m hopeful for them. 

But then as I walk past them to leave, she’s watching the hockey channel with a bland not-a-smile and he’s talking on his cell phone; and my hope for them slides to the floor along with their failed conversation.

not blogging forthrightly

This morning I’m standing in the bathroom looking at a can of shaving cream on the counter while I’m brushing my teeth.  That can of shaving cream gets me thinking that even the most loyal of my readers are going to stop visiting me here if I don’t start writing again. 

It’s no secret I get distracted.  I should probably come clean and say it’s likely more a case of being self-absorbed.  Because when you can’t see beyond the end of your nose, you stop paying attention to what’s going on around you. And that’s the death knell for your writing if what you write about is the world that goes on around you. 

The current self absorption, indicated by that can of shaving cream, isn’t a bad thing at all. However, unlike my luminous blogger friend PENolan, I lack forthrightness that could enrich my own stories, even behind this veil of faceless internetdom. That missing candour is the thing that will always keep me a few steps outside the realm of GOOD memoir; but I carry on. 

One thing PE and I do share is recent adventures in online dating. Me, I’ve called 2011 "The Year of Dating Fearlessly.” I wasn’t afraid exactly – though dating at my age is not for the faint of heart. PE blogs openly and humorously about her dating adventures; I do not.  Maybe I should.  Maybe if I’d written about it more I’d have learned how to do it better. 

PE may or may not have told her dates about her blog, but I always did – it always came up. My obsession with personal stories is part of who I am; it forms how I see. And pointing a bloke to my blog is a quick way for him to understand me in an initial sort of way. So I didn’t feel free to write about the fellas that came in and out of my life, even though most of them weren’t much interested in reading the thing anyway and would probably never know. 

I ventured into the Year of Dating Fearlessly with purpose last December because over time it got so much easier to not date at all because of the chances of really finding a connection with someone seemed more and more minimal as the years passed.  I don’t mind my own company; I’d rather be alone with me than be with someone simply for the sake of not being alone.  Being alone was never my preferred state though, and so around this time last year I determined I’d gotten too sensitive about all the dating failures and that sensitivity had turned into complacence.  I was about to turn fifty; the chances of staying complacent for the rest of my life were probably increasing with every day.

Outside of complacency is my dislike of first dates.  Some people think bad first dates are inevitable, and you just need to move on to the second date or even the third in order to really know if you click. The Year of Dating Fearlessly was about me soldiering on through as many bad first dates as it took to get to some good ones. And there were some pretty good ones, as well as some really bad ones and all manner in between.  

If I learned anything in the Year of Dating Fearlessly it was something that I really knew since I was a teenager: my judgement is pretty good.  If the first date isn’t good, then the second one isn’t likely to be so either.  What a good first date comes down to is talking. Not just talking – communicating. Communicating is what gets you to a good second date. 

What a good first date with lots of communicating comes down to is chemistry. I believe in chemistry – I’ve had it in the past and I want it. It’s more than shared interests that instigates communicating. If all the atoms are jumping in the same direction then there’s a mutual WANT to share and WANT to know and that’s what makes one conversation lead to three others in the space of a half an hour.  

And it’s all those atoms jumping in the same direction that issue that YES suddenly discovered in what starts as a polite little hug and turns into an electrical current that stops time for a moment. 

So where does all the PE style candour come in?  More forthrightly, when does a new person become a bloggable member of your world?  

It might start when he leaves things like, say, shaving cream in your bathroom because he knows he’ll be around needing it again soon, and suddenly, bad first dates are the furthest thing from your mind.

Shaving cream
Beautiful thing number 75

conversation mojo

Last night I essentially hung up on a good friend because we couldn’t talk to one another.  It was like we were both standing on different planes – angled stages that were perpetually moving, veering us away from one another.  Every attempt at communication was a misfire, our timing was out of whack – neither of us could find one meaningful thing in anything the other had to say.  It has been like this for the past several conversations and I couldn’t bear the frustration of it any longer.  This friendship was born of a connection that was marvelously in synch since the moment we met five years ago, and I didn’t know what to do with this situation but to walk away and try again next time.

This morning I woke up to messages saying “you are not a [very bad word]” and “I love your un-[very bad word]ness” and so it seemed he had forgiven me on the whole thing.  And which also must mean that at some point in between my hanging up and his sending messages that said I was NOT a [very bad word], I had been called a [very bad word].

Now, dear reader, you may not find it surprising that, as I rolled over to go to sleep last night, exhausted from the nowhere exchange, I was cursing HIM and his goddamn cheeky bravado and his not taking my frustration seriously.  But the thing is I adore his cheeky bravado, I always have; it usually makes me laugh.  As it did this morning when I found those messages assuring me that I am not a [very bad word].  Nevertheless, having slept on it I wondered if the whole thing really was my fault.

Because the past few days have given me more than this one cause to question my aptitude in the ways of conversation.  I started to write “art of conversation,” but that’s something else, no?  Isn’t the “art of conversation” something associated with one’s ability to interact in a social setting, like a party?  The “art of conversation” is a social tool, to be employed in certain situations.  Some people are gifted in that art – they can enliven a gathering, make others feel confident and special, and engage others in stories.  Other people are socially retarded.  You know the type – their attempts at conversation only make others feel uncomfortable or hostile.  They put words out there that fall with a loud clatter on the floor leaving one or more people cringing in pain.  My situation is about personal communication – and can personal communication be an art?

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty good conversationalist.  I’m not one of those gifted ones to any degree and I am hopeless with small talk.  And, as last night showed, I am incapable of carrying the load of a flagging conversation.  I am very social and I love all kinds of gatherings – from intimate to large – particularly when good conversation springs forth organically from the chemistry bouncing about the room.

And I have the ability to engage people in ideas and concepts – at least that's what a number of writing students have said.  I can hold my own in intellectual discussions (or at least ask appropriate questions), and I’m aware of current events and politics.  I do avoid anger and bad feelings, probably too much, and depending on the assembled – I may or may not voice what are often pretty strong opinions.  If I sense everyone is a grown up about it and would manage a debate fairly and good-naturedly, then I’m all about it. 

It’s personal conversations that have taken a piece out of me the past few days.  Or I should say the personal discussions that haven’t happened for reasons I’m still trying to work out.  Because it also happened with another person, with whom there was chemistry and everything else seemed to gel naturally; everything except the talking.

If it is me (though I still maintain last night wasn’t entirely my fault), I sense it’s got to do with the recent stepped-up action in the dating world – a world that’s always brought out my very best awkward.  And if that’s the case – I don’t like it one bit.  This is a wall that’s got be knocked down.  Pronto.

Maybe I should look upon my conversation aptitude as an art after all.  And hanging up probably wasn’t the most creative way to deal with last night’s nowhere-talk.  You know, I’ve always had a creative mind, and perhaps I, the creative thinker, will just have to apply those skills to bring back my conversation mojo.

a suitable theme song

… for getting back into the dating world. 

I'm thinking it should be a reminder – that maybe I should play it before every date.  In other words – "stay down here on the planet Jennifer."

(Oh, and well, how had I gone for so long without thinking about Paul Hyde and the Payolas?) 


 

this particular dance

I don’t know how to do it

this dance

and I’ve always hated doing things I’m not good at
at least until
I got good at them
and this particular dance makes me feel
like I’m falling over my feet

or worse
yours

what if
instead
we walked a while

I never was a good multi-tasker
or dancer
of this particular dance

but when we walk
I can think
listen
talk

When I’m mucking about having to focus
on getting the moves
right
and when I’m dancing where I should be walking
all I can think about
is finding the damn road map

Ironic
since no map-following
would likely be the better
route
in this journey
meandering back roads
tripping up surprise hills
and
into hidden trails

And see
dancing is for eyes closed

and not thinking
or
steps
or
directions

or
finding
“truth” in something
outside the dancer

especially when it doesn’t exist
yet

dancing is for
revelling
in that thing
already
found

Magpie music 
 
This is a Magpie Tale.  To find more creative takes on this and other wonderful photo prompts, visit here.  Give it a try – creativity is good for you!