Perdition and the One

A personal essay I wrote for my Journalism class last semester.

Dating can be a very dangerous and eye opening experience.  While every relationship is different, most people can go back, look at their failed relationships and see a very distinct pattern.  For me the pattern was tall, thin, effeminate white men, who were primarily insecure actors or just insecure.  Each of these men had commitment issues and for one reason or another I did not actually like them, for either a physical attribute or mental one, usually mental.  My last relationship was this on again off again cycle of hell with a man I found to be dumb and not funny.

So in an attempt to reboot my system I decide to stop dating for a year, to just focus on rebuilding the old engine, wiping the hard drive clean and starting over.  Of course the first man I went out with after this cleansing period turned out to be exactly like my ex.  Still hung up on a girl he had broken up with long ago that wanted nothing to do with him.  He thought I was great but couldn’t get her out of his head, obviously not the one. 

I decided to embark on a social experiment.  Stop dating my physical type in an attempt to break this pattern of un-healthy relationships.  From that moment on, I vowed to stay away from tall, thin, effeminate, insecure white men.

First I dated a short Jewish republican economist who audited credit unions.  Since I am a liberal, hybrid driving, democrat, with a gay husband, needless to say, that did not work out.  Then I started dating a friend of mine I’d known for years, who was nerdy and awkward but had been raised in Europe so I thought maybe he would have a more worldly view, the more worldly view was one of non-commitment, next.  Then, I went out with this guy, who thought he was the hottest thing on the planet, and told me on our first date that he was a swinger and invited me to a swing party the next night.  Um… run away, next.  Which lead me to the five-foot-ten, three hundred pound ESPN production assistant and a first and last date that I will never forget.

Out of my peripheral vision I see a tuft of dirty blonde hair instinctively I know it is my friend James.  I turn around, running up the down escalator; sweat bubbling up on my lower back; my white button down flapping against me, fanning away the moisture as I screamed, “James”.  My scream breaks the sacred silence of the Marina Barnes and Noble.  All eyes turn to me.  My ballet slippers dig into the grooved metal as I reach the top.

Embracing my friend I look back to find that my date did not follow me.  James whispers in my ear, “So… Good date, huh?”

I lean over the railing trying to locate my lost date, wishing that we hadn’t bought tickets for the movie already.  I could have asked James to take me home, but alas I’m stuck.  I pull my phone out of my pocket and call my date.  I tell him my location and he steps onto the escalator coming back up to the top level of the bookstore. 

James’ jaw drops.  He smacks me on the arm.  “That’s your date?” 

I look at him, my eyes narrow I can feel the blood rushing to my face as the lumbering boxy man in the short sleeve blue button down, with the dark blue argyle sweater vest over dark blue jeans topped with a multicolored blue page boy hat arrives at the top of the escalator.

I turn back to my “friend” James and tell him, “I’m dating out of my type.”  This sad creature shyly walks up to us, a poor imitation of a Queer Eye for the Straight Guy contestant, he just looks queer.  This image could only be worse if he smelled of Dakar Noir, instead of the garlic and onion from dinner.

I fantasize about going home with James but decide to be a good date and stick it out with the weirdo.  We go to the movie where he tries to put his hand on my thigh.  I push it away.  Fifteen minutes later he tries again.  I push him away.  Fifteen minutes later another attempt.  His hand is closer to my knee than my no-no place so I allow it, the movie should be over soon.  An hour later, the film finally ends.  We walk to his car and he drives me home.

I thank God for Long Beach’s impacted neighborhoods, there’s no parking, and no awkward kiss goodnight moment at the door.  I do the polite thing, the side hug in the car from the passenger’s seat.  I feel his face turn on approach.  I dodge, met by open moist lips and a tongue that probes my cheek.  I get through the gate and receive a text message from him, saying how beautiful I am asking me out again.

My brain vomits.  I do not respond.  I walk up the stairs, log into my online dating account and search for the next love of my life.  Obviously it is not the awkward, forward, insecure man I’ve just had dinner and a movie with.

A week later, after thirty unanswered text messages he finds me online.  I am talking to a new man, Travis, who is not my type, a twenty-eight year old five-foot-three ninety pound video game designer, with arthrogryposis multiplex congenita.  ESPN, the awkward boy wonder, starts sending me instant messages, asking why I won’t go out with him again.  Typing, “I knew I shouldn’t have worn that hat.”  Insisting his poor judgment in accessories was to blame.

Yes of course it was the hat.  It had absolutely nothing to do with what was under the hat.

The ESPN hat guy spends the next hour asking me what he needs to do to attract women, and complaining about how hard it is to be single and not be able to read the signs.  Travis and I laugh about this overzealous man, as we talk about Milton, Shakespeare and Donne.  I ask him if we can talk on the phone so the ESPN hat guy will leave me alone.  We exchange phone numbers and end up talking until 7AM.  I was his from that moment on.

Had the ESPN wonder boy calmed down, took his time to get to know me, and just been confident and secure in who he is, maybe things would be different between us.  Luckily, by stumbling through this awkward date and having him virtually stalk me, I fell for Travis who is nothing like what I thought I wanted and yet somehow is everything I need.

Dating is the most asinine and annoying process but without having gone out with a myriad of losers, freaks and a-holes I never would have met my perfect, pocket sized for my pleasure, brilliant, handicapped boyfriend, who prefers to be called a gimp or a cripple.  Secure, confident and self-aware this beautiful man won me over with his sense of humor.  Who else would take a hapa girl to a sushi restaurant on their first date while wearing a t-shirt with the international handicap symbol that reads, “I’m just in it for the parking,” a man worthy of my nerdy love, that’s who. 

I found my way home to a man that I would still love, even if he wore a bad hat.