When Picky People Date Picky People, Everyone Loses

Of all the advice that you give your lovelorn, single friends, the one most frequently used is - "you're too picky."

It may be true. Looking back on my past relationships, most were borne out of school/college/graduate school friendships, and most took a bit of persistence on the part of the male at issue. (My girlfriends and I refer to this as the "wearing down" process. Eventually, you submit. You must, because resistance is becoming more work than submitting.)

The process now, admittedly, is more involved. Guy A/Girl A has to jump through hoop after hoop of dinner, drinks, rock climbing or whatever nonsense you will put them through, sleep overs, meeting friends, meeting other bored couples, meeting family, etc. How on earth does any poor soul get through the vetting process that is tough as (if not tougher) than the American presidential race? Dating is nothing less than a rigorous and treacherous communications campaign. You are in fact selling a product - a set of values, beliefs, and a history that you believe the other person will find attractive and acceptable. With the process mired in twists, turns, and terror, it is difficult to not eliminate as soon as you sense weakness. At the first sign of imperfection, I hear many girls (and boys) repeatedly tell me, "Well, I'm just too picky." Picky at what - age 24? 28? 33? 36? I imagine the chart looks something like this:

Clarification: people do not get more radioactive with age (although they don't get any better looking). This is science my friends, and the older you get, the less picky you are allowed to be. Hear that? That is the sound of the wedding bells of all your former friends and colleagues getting hitched, leaving you in a thinning pool of candidates (even if the pool is a superior one). Factor in your added "pickiness" and the pool will further diminish. When we were younger, we were excited if someone fairly cute and nice was "into us." We jumped headfirst into relationships without knowing where they were going; we took a chance on an imperfect person. Why all this risk aversion now? Granted, no one wants a time-bomb relationship, but in our Olympic 5000 yard, 600 hurdle, 10,000 foot long jump of the dating world, it's rare.

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that I am a catch, much like the rest of you. I am any or all of the following: warm, confident, educated, nice, friendly, progressive, well-read, spontaneous, laid back, Arrested Development watching-biking-cooking-athletic-dancing-travel-trilingual speaking extraordinaire (See every OKC profile ever). That doesn't make me perfect. It makes me a great choice for another someone searching for someone in this crazy world. And maybe, if that person is a little less picky, they might choose a gal like me. Before I become radioactive, of course.

Jack Frost

And just to clarify, when your date offers to serve as your hook-up to Drug X, Y, and Z, and even promises to cut you a good deal-


you finish your delicious scallops seared in a black garlic scented salsify puré (Urbana) and call it a night. 

When Your Date Discovers Your Anonymous Blog.

My dear friends,


As I always say, reality is stranger than fiction. The great pains I have taken to anonymize this blog are, in fact, tenuous at best. I will refresh your memories as to a certain date- let's call him Robert- which went well. This blog was not the kindest to our first date (it lumped two dates in one and labeled them un-interesting) - but for some reason I did want to see him again (I came around to this after some charm and persistence, which I think goes a long way on gchat.)


And then, on the fateful day of his dinner party that I was to attend, the worst of all events transpired. By some cruel twist of fate, he discovered my heartless entry. What to do! Proceed with matters as usual? Ignore it? Act as if it wasn't true? After a long session with my DCT (Damage Control Team)* things were no better. Even they couldn't dig me out of this blog hole. 


And then- amazingly- it seemed as if he didn't care. He did not dis-invite me to dinner, and seemed amused by the whole thing. In a turnaround moment that only a sports movie could deliver, he was now racking up mad points. Someone who could care less than I was blogging to the universe about his attributes? It almost seemed too good to be true. And predictably - as soon as if it seemed that he was out of my reach and I had colossally ****** up - I had to take back the boy. Operation Take Back involved flowers, a dress, and my hands deep in bloody marinated lamb (it turned out delightful). A successful night, you may think to yourself. 


*Your DCT should always be comprised of 2/3 members of the opposite gender, and 1/3 of your own gender. DCT should be FB/Gchat/Gmail/Twitter-accessible at all times and in any kind of emergency. DO NOT abuse the kindness of your DCT. Show them the love- perhaps a chocolate at Valentine's Day, or a kind word from time to time. They are your invaluables. 

FORGET EVERYTHING I SAID IN THE LAST ENTRY

And the reality of it shall strike you with the vengeance of lightning.


Two months into dating William, and something started going wrong. With family and the holidays looming, we were slated to spend almost two weeks apart - with sickness spreading and William's almost comedically weak immune system- I started sensing us drifting. 


My sharp-as-a-bobcat instincts were not erroneous. On our date on Wednesday, I presented the "s*** or get off the pot" moment. 


His reaction was mixed. After a lengthy soliloquy on my attributes (of which there are many), he started faltering. "The thing...the thing that holds me back is....


[My fickleness?]
[My whimsical, capricious nature?]
[My incomprehensible need to not pump out babies immediately?]


It was none of these. 


"The thing that holds me back is your age." 


You could have knocked me over with a feather. 


My age? I sputtered, over a terrible tray of sushi. But how can I change that? And you've known my age since Date 1. 


He looks like a miserable dog. "I know." Then he rambles on about how he doesn't know if he has the requisite energy to go through the stages of life in your mid-20s with me. He then realizes his fatal error. Anger streams from my eyes like a laser. I take a sip of lycheetini (also badly made at this restaurant) and say, you realize you've put me in a decision-making position. 


I ask him how he feels about never seeing me again. "Horrible," he replies, with a foregone look in his eyes. 


I already know what I have to do. Despite the sickening churning in my stomach and a sense that I have been led on by a man undeserving of me, I have enough dignity to gather my words coherently. I explain to him that the things he worries about are things that I simply cannot change. I ask him why, knowing I was six years younger than him, he chose to date me this long. I ask him, did he not think that we had something special? And why would he  let his thinking overpower his emotions? In the car ride home, it's awkward city, kids. It's rejection, in a sense, and I am not used to it. It is the opposite of what I thought would happen with this person, and I am angry more than hurt. At the end of the car ride I even have the magnanimity to tell him what he has done well [the romanticism/etc.], what he should do with others, and then, finally- that he is an idiot. He agrees. 


Before I leave the car, he stops me. "If I call you, would you pick up the phone?" 


Well, of all the damnedest things, he wants to see me again? 


I say, maybe. I mean, not in a chance in hell. There is a window. A very small window of opportunity in life, and when it closes, you have to live with the consequences. 


On the bright side, I still have his $265 spa gift certificate from my birthday. I think it's time for a deep tissue massage, ladies.