A Little Self Reflection

I have been seeing Recovering Alcoholic for about a month now.  Not dating- I made that clear a few weeks ago- but seeing casually.  He comes over about once a week.  We talk, cuddle, have sex, talk some more.  I was honest with him that I don't see a future, but I'm enjoying the short term potential.

Why has this man, who self-admits he is somewhat of a disaster, kept my attention?   I have been on dates with countless men who, on paper, are great catches.  They are wealthy and successful with their careers and personal lives.  They don't have mental illness or addictions problems.  They are solid boyfriend or husband material for most women out there.  But they are also clueless about social issues I'm so passionate about- poverty, race, gender, global movements...  When I think about men I have connected with over the course of my life, they all have this social awareness in common.

I'm not talking about being politically liberal, because all of my dates are.  This is Seattle, and we are in our 20s and 30s.  Last November when WA state experienced the triple whammy of an Obama win, marriage equality, and legalization of marijuana, thousands of my generation flooded the streets in the Pike-Pine corridor, celebrating into the wee hours of a Wednesday morning with marching bands and pot.  I could hear the raucousness in my apartment a mile away.  Two years of living in Seattle as an adult, and I have not met a single Republican.

One can be politically progressive and unaware of the reality in the world, however, and this is the category that most of my dates fall into.  Some of them can be quite offensive without realizing it.

Like the Expedia marketing manager who lives in one of the new, posh, $$$$$ buildings on Broadway and explained his choice of apartments by raising up his pinky finger and saying "I'm in the 1%" with a smile and a wink.

Or the accountant in Ballard who, when I told him what I did for a living, asked "Don't you get tired of all the people taking advantage of the system?"

Or the IT guy who told me I had "major street cred" because I went to a bakery in White Center.   Buying a pupusa in a non-white neighborhood?  I live on the edge.

Most recently, my 53rd first date, a data analyst, asked me about my opinion about healthcare inequality.  "So, do you think poor people have more illnesses?"  You're a mother fucking data analyst!  Have you not seen any data on this in your 33 years of life?!?  Analyze this:  No Second Date.

I know that not everyone has a career where they go to work and actively try to fight injustice in our system.  I do.  More than anything else in this world, my job defines who I am.  Men that I connect with understand the social issues that propel me every day, sometimes because they come from disadvantaged backgrounds themselves. 

Lack of societal awareness: another dealbreaker.  Alcoholism and mental illness, not so much.


 

Did this just happen?

I went on a walk tonight and walked right past a man I dated a year and a half ago, the one who shook me when I ended things.  I had literally uttered the following words to him that I hope to never repeat: "Please don't hit me."   He told me he loved me as I shoved my feet into my shoes and got out of his home as quickly as possible.  We are both Jewish and live in Seattle.  You might think paths would cross, but we haven't seen each other since.

He was sitting in a Capitol Hill bar with two friends I'd met, looking out the window onto the street.  We made eye contact, and then he looked away.   His friends saw me too, and for a brief second everyone was aware of the intensity of the situation yet we all ignored it.  They continued their conversation.  I hesitated and almost entered the bar to say hi, but the voice of reason carried my body away.  I am all for getting along and being friends with men I've had relationships with, but it seemed like a lose-lose situation.  This one needed to be let go. 

31

I turned 31 in a manner similar to how I turned 30, drunk on boxed wine, camping with two friends alongside a river in the North Cascades National Park.  Western medicine says I have four more years to bear a child without the diagnosis of "advanced maternal age," but I've learned to stop counting. It will happen, or it won't. I refuse to compromise my life because of a timeline.

The next day I went on a third date with this new man. Third dates are a rarity in my world- there have only been four in the last two years. Fourth dates, for which my blog is named, are even more elusive. There have been two, and one of them was a mistake.

I learn from my mistakes, though, and I have promised myself that I will not continue to date people any more when I see no future. The issues that show up early on are the same issues that break the relationship down the line. I see the red flags, and in the past I have tried to convince myself that I can look past them. I'm not doing that any more. When dating is right, it's right, and when I've been in love in the past I've had no doubts.

I showed up to this man's home, a sober house with three roommates. Decor was sparse and consisted of mismatched Craigslist couches and a television. I was thirsty, and he handed me a glass of water with floating green foam. We drove in his 1998 Honda Civic to a friend's potluck, and as the car lurched over Phinney Ridge I knew I couldn't do it any more. I felt like a snob, but I realized in my 31-year-old heart that I wanted something different.

We were about to make out, lying on his full-sized mattress on the floor of his room, his lithium and lamotrigine bottles visible on his bookshelf, when I told him that I had to be honest about my reservations. He listened to me and said he understood. "I know I'm weird," he said. "You're looking for a whole person, someone who has interests and has their act together. I'm just not there."

I nodded.

"So the question," he asked, "is where do you want to go from here?"

"I'm happy with this," I responded candidly. "I want to spend time with you, and I want to have sex with you, but I just know it's not going to progress to anything more serious on my end.  I don't want to lie to you and have you think this is something it's not."

He told me I was awesome, and then we had sex. As it turns out, men are cool with keeping things casual as well.

Which One of Us Has the Psych Disorder?

We made plans for a second date.  "What are some thoughts as to things to do?" he texted, feeding right into a major pet peeve of mine with dating Seattle men...  You are the man.  Take charge.  Tell me where to meet and what time.  Make a reservation.  Buy tickets.  I'll be there.

I didn't respond right away, and after a few hours he offered a suggestion:  "I sometimes do a meditation thang on Sunday if you wanna."

Ahhhh, nothing makes for a better second date than sitting in silence with a large group of people.  Yet as weird as the idea was, I was intrigued.   I had never been on a meditation date, and options for activities are limited when dating a recovering alcoholic.  Boring is a dealbreaker, and that he was not.

On a gorgeous Seattle Sunday afternoon, we met up at Cal Anderson Park pre-meditation to actually speak with each other.  Conversation was easy, and it quickly turned sexual.  "Let's see what questions I can ask you to try and make you feel uncomfortable," he challenged.  "What's your favorite position?"

It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable, and that didn't even come close.  I told him my favorite position, and he told me that it could be better modified with one leg over his shoulder.  I laid down on my arms in the grass, and he said he liked the way my ass looked.  This went on, for half an hour, back and forth, two people flirting and testing boundaries, of which we seemed to have few.

"I have an idea," I posed.  "We clearly want to have sex with each other, so let's see if we can go ten minutes without talking about sex and we can figure out if we want to spend time with each other too."  He agreed, and I set the timer on my phone.

A tortuous ten minutes passed and the timer went off.  "Can we make out now?" he asked.  We rolled on top of each other in the park, second daters in their early thirties, completely sober.

We never made it to meditation.  I invited him back to my place to watch the sunset on the roof, and when he suggested I give him a blowjob I told him I didn't want to be intimate on the second date.  He was respectful and said that was fine, then he came into my apartment and I changed my mind.  We had sex on my bare mattress.  I had underestimated my libido after three months of celibacy and had left my clean sheets in the laundry basket thinking I wouldn't need them until a third date.  The chemistry couldn't wait for a well-made bed.

Yet something felt off the entire date.  Chemistry is crucial for me, but it only takes dating so far.  Red flags abounded, and I have dated enough to know not to ignore that sinking feeling in my chest that screams something isn't right.  Maybe it was the alcoholism, or the dual diagnoses of bipolar and borderline personality disorder, or the fact that he said he'd had ten partners in the last three years and hadn't used a condom once.  Or maybe, MAYBE, I am finally becoming wary of dating men that have criminal records.  But when he left my apartment, I felt the same feeling that I've felt over and over again the last few years, with few exceptions.

Apathy.  If he contacts me again, I'll see him.  If he doesn't contact me again, I won't care.  Two years of dating.  Who is the crazy one?