The time has come to admit that I did have a good date once- in fact, the
best first date I've ever had. We met at
a community event four months ago and hit it off right away. He was a student, attractive, intelligent,
fluent in two languages, socially conscious, and best of all, he made me
laugh. I'd finally found the chemistry
I'd spent hundreds of hours on the internet searching for.
He asked me to go swing dancing with him, and I accepted. I showed up at the lessons an hour before the
band started so I wouldn't spend the entire night stepping on his feet. We danced together about fifteen minutes- or
rather he danced and I stumbled- when he suggested that we go somewhere quiet
to talk more.
We had ice cream and then drinks, and before I knew it I'd spent four hours
on a Sunday night having an amazing time with a man who would become my
boyfriend. We kissed goodnight and I had
goosebumps. It was exactly the kind of
first date this Seattle girl needed.
I have been in love three times in my life.
Three men lifted up my soul with the kind of gentle, tender love that
fills you with greatness and makes you want to be a better person. There are three men who, when we looked into
each others’ eyes and melted together, I knew completely, and they knew me
completely too.
I do not understand how the line is drawn between love and not love, but I
know quickly, every time, that I am headed for the deep. It's like gravitational pull or the seasons
changing; there is no other alternative.
And with this man, my best first date ever, I came to realize that my
feelings were not careening down like the tumbling boulder love is.
He was a good boyfriend, so I wanted to give it time. I talked with him about the things that
bothered me in our relationship, and he tried to change them. I reminded myself that he was honest, ethical,
and treated me well. He brought me
flowers for no reason, made me organic chicken soup when I was sick, took the
bus for three hours to spend the night with me when I crashed my car in a
snowstorm. I tried and tried and tried,
but I couldn’t create something that wasn’t there.
We had just finished having sex one morning when he told me he loved
me. He realized his vulnerability as
soon as the words escaped and tried to recover, "I mean, I love your
pussy." Silence. I understood what he meant, and I didn't know
what to say.
I knew it had to end, and if I have learned one thing in my fifteen years of
dating, it is the importance of a timely and respectful breakup. So one day after work, I went over to his
home to talk.
I was honest, explained that I didn’t think my feelings were matching his,
that I did not want to waste his or my time.
“I don’t want to patronize you,” I said, “but I really do have a lot of
respect for you. You were a good
boyfriend, and you treated me well. I’m
so sorry.”
He had been sitting calmly, almost in disbelief, when he exploded. “Well you fucking should be! We had something special and you fucked it
all up!” Then he stood up, grabbed me by
both shoulders, and shook me violently. Already
in tears, my mind jumped to an image of me in the hospital with bruises or a
broken face, and I cried harder. “Please,
don’t hit me!”
He stopped immediately, seeming as shocked by his reaction as I was, and
said four words: You need to leave.
I didn’t have to be told twice.
I was closing the door when he called out to me and told me to wait. I stopped, and he said exactly what I was
hoping against. “I really did love you.” I didn’t respond, just cried and left his
house.
Two weeks later, at a late hour that is only good for drunken texting, I
received the following message from him:
Be embarrassed for yourself.
I wasn’t.
