Apparently for Men, Crazy is not a Dealbreaker Either

99.99999% of the time in Seattle dating, I feel like the men are, objectively speaking, the fuckups:  too socially clueless or offensive, irritatingly passive and poorly groomed.  But sometimes, sometimes I'm the one who is a hot dating mess.  Blame it on the feminist club I joined in my Pacific Northwest high school, or the women's college, or two years of malelessness nursing school.  Find my parents guilty for refusing to let their only daughter play with Barbies or shave her legs.  Hold accountable Planned Parenthood, for keeping me baby-free into my early 30s.  Here we go...

 I like Crazy Chinatown man more each time I see him, and with that I get nervous. Adding to my insecurity is an inherent, cultural power dynamic between a 40 year old man and a 32 year old woman that I have a hard time overcoming.  Not to mention he's had one relationship that lasted eight years and another six years, while my longest functioning relationship (defined by two people in love living in the same state) is a whopping five months.  If I broaden my definition of "functioning" to include a transnational romance with a man who subsequently joined the Catholic priesthood or a live-in boyfriend who I had ZERO sex with, I get two years.  To sum it up, I'm dating him with my defensive instincts immediately set up, which led to a problem.

We'd had a nice evening together, and by the time we'd had sex and cuddled, it was midnight and I needed to head home.  My car was parked on the street, and he said he would walk me there from his third floor apartment.

I've been single nearly my entire life, and I'm used to a high level of independence.

"No, it's okay, I can walk myself."

"This area can get weird at night, I'd feel better if I just walked you down."

"No really, it's fine.  You don't have to put your clothes on."

He insisted one more time as he went through his closet, and I freaked out.  I wanted control.  I wanted to leave his apartment and walk to my car on my own, as I have done every other time I've had sex with a man.

"No!  You don't have to come with me!  I just feel really uncomfortable with gender roles and I can walk to my car on my own!  I feel weird when men try and help me out, and I'll be fine!  I lived in this neighborhood for a year and never had any problems!"

He continued to get dressed.

"Please don't!  I went to a women's college and I'm not used to this!  I'm freaking out right now!  I just can't handle anything that falls along gender lines!  I don't ever want an engagement ring!"

I mentioned an engagement ring. WHY THE FUCK DID I MENTION AN ENGAGEMENT RING?!?!?

"R_______...  I'm just trying to walk you to your car."

I was unnecessarily jittery, hastily thanked him for a nice time, said I could walk by myself, and ran out the door.

He followed me into the hallway, and I disappeared into the elevator, hitting the 1* button repeatedly until the doors closed.  They finally opened and I ran out into the apartment lobby, only to find him waiting there for me.

At that point I gave up and he walked me to my car.

"If there's one thing you should know about me," he said, "it's that I do what I want."

"I do too."

"And that's why we're both here."

The next day, I realized what a disaster I was.  He didn't contact me and my heart sank, believing that I completely ruined one of the most promising series of dates I've had in 3.5 years.

"Do you still want to date me?", I sent a desperate text message the next evening.

He responded an excruciating twelve minutes later:

"Oh, this is a really bad day for serious text chatting.  I'm under the impression we're people in hanging out mode and not like dating, put perhaps I blacked something out?  I didn't sleep at all, got near dead at crossfit today, and am really worked up that these two fucking people still haven't paid me for jobs, and probably chemically and emotionally a bit out of whack for having drank the entire week before my birthday then stopping.  So that's all where I am today."

FUCKKKKKKKKKKK.  Not good.  I assumed I was done with.  Then two days later, I got another text:

"When you write your blog, do you include parts where somebody wants to walk you to your car after hanging out and having sex, and you shriek a bunch of things really quickly about gender roles, women's colleges, and freaking out, then run out the front door and sprint to the elevator, or are these entries usually other-person centric?"

The answer is, I include it all.

We saw each other again, had another fun evening, and are still communicating.  Fingers crossed.  Thank God we both love the crazies.
 

Update on the man who I avoided by texting my friends in the bathroom of The Elysian and then hiding behind a bush

He asked me out again.

No.

Corduroys

Crazy Chinatown Man grew on me, steadily but surely, over a game of chess.  We each consumed a moderate two glasses of wine and neither of us took opiates that night.  He was thoughtful, creative, humble, and actually not that crazy.  He wore corduroys again, sporting a look that I call “Pacific Northwest Sexy”.  I have waited three years for a man to show up in corduroys on a date, and he did it twice in a row.  The fact that it was the same pair of corduroys only made him more endearing. 

“So what if there’s a questionable substance abuse problem and mental health history?”, I thought to myself.  When my last relationship ended I went completely insane, and who doesn’t enjoy mixing alcohol and pills once in awhile?  Dealbreakers are meth and needles, and he used neither in my presence.

Back at my apartment, we sat on my couch talking and holding hands for ten minutes before I remembered that it is nearly impossible for a Seattle man to make the first move, and I decided to help him out. I kissed him, and ten minutes later we were still kissing. I couldn't remember the last time I made out with someone without clothes coming off.  Possibly fifteen years ago?  We both wanted to, but it didn’t happen. The funny thing about dating is I'll sleep with anyone who I don't want to see again, but when I like a man, the stakes are higher.  I was nervous.

We texted back and forth for a few days, and then he turned forty.  Younger men, I appreciate for their high energy level and fearlessness.  In older men, I like their sense of responsibility and life experience.  I didn’t know him well, but he seemed to have both.

“What advice can you give me for finishing out the rest of my 30s?”, I wanted to know.

"Don’t get arrested.  And don’t do too many drugs at once.”

I’m golden on those two accounts, but love?  How do I make the magic happen?  I wish I could figure that out.

On his birthday we spent several hours talking and making out, and then we had sex, completely sober.  I was so confused by the sensations and emotions of sober sex that I actually felt drunk, although I hadn’t touched alcohol that night.  Neither had he, and without me mentioning it, he said “I’m really glad we did this without drinking.”  It was sweet; I melted a little.

I straddled him, kissed him, and a curtain of my curly hair fell down around our faces.  "Sorry," I apologized, "I usually bring a hairband with me in these situations."

I didn't realize how stupidly inappropriate of a comment I made until he laughed and pointed it out.

"These situations?  I mean, I don't want to be sleeping with a virgin, but my mind is racing right now."

"AHHHH, sorry!  That was really dumb of me.  There haven't been THAT many of these situations." 

Oops!  Rookie mistake.  Except I'm not a rookie.

 

Meanwhile

I just sat in the bathroom of The Elysian for seven minutes to escape my shitty-ass 69th first date who ordered a second beer after we'd already been there one hour.  Then when we left the bar, I lied and told him my car was parked in the opposite direction of his and literally HID BEHIND A BUSH until I was sure he had left.

Crazy is Never a Dealbreaker

It was 10 pm this past Friday.  I was in bed in my pajamas, exhausted from the work week, going to sleep early to climb a mountain the next day, when I got an OkCupid message from a man I'd gone out with once in June of 2013.

He said he was embarrassed but in "last summer's weirdness," was it possible that we hung out and he couldn't remember?

Yesssss, here was a man who was completely drugged out during our first date.  Dealbreaker?  Hardly.  I remembered the date and thought he was attractive and interesting, albeit slightly odd and zonked out.  I would have seen him again, but he didn't contact me.  Until tonight!  What was I doing?  Would I like to meet him in half an hour at his favorite secret bar in Chinatown?

"Don't worry, I realize I'm coming across insane, so totally buddy homie yo bro platonic drinks is cool."  My thoughts as well.

I weighed the two options in front of me:

1)  Be normal.

2) Put on a dress and makeup and drive to a seedy Chinatown bar to meet a man with an admitted drug and/or psychiatric history for a second date, 15 months after the first.

Any guesses as to my move?

We met up in the back room of the Four Seas and needed to reintroduce ourselves.  I noted immediately that he seemed like a different person than from our first date.  He was more energetic and witty, less in a Xanax-or-perhaps-Seroquel induced state.  I liked that he was a lawyer and was comfortable working with people from different backgrounds in our community.  I also liked that he wore corduroy pants and let his hair fall into his eyes.  He had lived in Seattle for twenty years, and we reminisced about when Capitol Hill was gay and artsy, before brogrammers born in 1990 invaded the coffee shops with Google Glass and messenger bags, driving up the rents and pricing the long-time residents out.  He reminded me of the Seattle of my youth:  quirky, conscious, and independent.

"I must have been really out of it when we went out before if I didn't contact you again," he said, "because you're actually quite pretty and charming."

He was smooth, and I had to ask the question even though I already knew the answer:  "Have you ever been arrested?"

The answer was yes.  By now, it's a given.  I have a type, and the type is "possible criminal."

I was having too much fun, I ignored that he started out the evening by ordering himself a Corona AND a double shot of Jameson.  Then another Corona.  And another.  And a hydrocodone or two or three.  By 1 am he was smoking a cigarette in the parking lot, holding my hand, suggesting that we go back to his rooftop to try and see the Aurora Borealis.

The evening had sucked me in too much to say no, even though I was waking up in six hours to hike.  I was along for the ride, and I was ready to see where my bad decisions would take me.  By the time we got back to his apartment he was dancing to Lady Gaga, slurring his speech, and inviting me to celebrate his 40th birthday with him in a week.

"You can spend the night if you want," he offered.  "I mean, there are the men that put their hands on women and there are the men that keep their hands to themselves.  My hands are mine." 

Spoken like a true mix of seven drinks and opiates.

I was sober enough to make a good- although less interesting- decision and told him I would be sleeping at home.

"Okay."  His face fell for a moment, then he jumped up and shrieked.  "I have to pee!  Which plant do you want me to pee on?"

I told him the sunflower.  He peed nowhere near the sunflower.

It was 3 am, and I needed to leave.  He held my hand, walked me to my car, and never kissed me.

 

More First Dates

32 men sent me messages in the two weeks that I reactivated my OkCupid account, and I didn't respond to a single one.  Confirming that women hold the numeric edge in Seattle internet dating, three out of the four men I messaged wrote back.

Bam-Bam-Bam!  #66, #67, and #68 were in quick succession, all in the same week.  A nurse, a digital marketing executive, and a biology teacher.  Two Jewish, two Seattle born-and-raised, all intelligent, all attractive, all well-traveled, and all awesome.  I had three solid dates in a row with men who were 100% normal and could hold an interesting conversation.  There was nothing wrong with any of them, except for the underlying issue that has plagued my romantic life since I began developing sex hormones. 

No chemistry.

Is it my chronic allergic rhinitis that has dulled my sense of smell to the point where I can't detect pheromones?  Was it the fact that none of them had been arrested?  I wish there was an easy answer, but that *zing* is so hard for me to find.  Dating is easier when you're attracted to more people.

I know my selection process is getting better because none of the men contacted me afterwards.  They had enough interpersonal skills to realize the absence of a romantic connection, and we went our separate ways thanking the other for a good time without making vague, fake plans to see each other again.  Gone are the days of men professing how amazing I am while I stare in disbelief, wondering how they saw any connection at all.  Things are looking better.

 

Seattle, I hate you.  I just sat at the bar in The Elysian by myself, and you know what?  A man sat down and talked to me.  I will give my readers a chance to process because I'm in disbelief myself...  In a bar, in Seattle, a man approached me.  You read that correctly.  I should buy a lotto ticket.

He was an archaeologist with the National Park Service and had fascinating stories about meeting with indigenous tribal leaders to preserve ancient stone art.  He had a PhD, fully-funded, from a prestigious university.  He was hot and did not have a beard.

Aaaaaaaaaand he didn't live in Seattle but was in town for a conference.  Shocking.  Screw this city, where a million tech guys WHO LOOKED EXACTLY THE SAME invaded downtown for a videogame convention this weekend, but I have never met a local professional archaeologist.