Still Crazy After All These Tears

"Dating."  The word alone strikes terror in the hearts of both the young and old, male and female, straight and gay, wealthy and impoverished, short and tall, thin and obese.  It evokes uncertainty and discomfort whether you're the beauty or the beast.

It's hard for me to believe, but I recently realized that I've been dating for twenty years.  To you kids, that may seem like a long time.  And to you happily-ever-afters, it might sound like a lot of dating.  And you're both right.

In those two decades, I've spent close to fifteen formidably formative years in serious relationships with five different guys, two of which resulted in marriage and divorce.  In the meantime, I've easily gone on a hundred first dates with a variety of prospects, most of whom offered nothing aside from mild to severe disappointment, and, in the best cases, a good friendship here and there. 

Although I have never had a problem meeting people in person, there was a time when I broadened my horizons with the assistance of the internet.  It only led to being let down in more geographically diverse locations than I could have ever imagined without actually VISITING those places first.  My internet dating days went so badly that I have sworn it off completely.  I always say that internet dating is like shooting a fish in a barrel... and then going on a date with it.

In my quest for Mr. Right, I have happened upon a thousand Mr. Maybes and at least as many Mr. Maybe Nuts.  I have dated actors, athletes, atheists, Bible beaters, bartenders, brainiacs, chemical engineers, chemical dependents, co-dependents, car salesmen, contractors, con men, detectives, dealers, deadbeats, dorks, deejays, emcees, environmentalists, evolutionists, esoterics, fanatics, freaks, givers, heavy hitters, homosexuals, instigators, jerks, jokers, kooks, lawyers, liars, loners, losers, musicians, mechanics, models, manic depressives, nerds, optimists, pessimists, perverts, philanderers, political activists, punk rockers, professionals, preps, quacks, revolutionaries, rejects, rebounds, starving artists, social butterflies, sociopaths, students, teachers, talkers, takers, unacceptable behaviors, victims, winners, writers, waiters, xenophobes, yellow bellies, Zen Buddhists, Boy Scouts, frat boys, beardy boys, pretty boys, skater boys, surfer dudes, tattooed guys, funny guys, younger guys, older men, wealthy men and mooches. 

I have disregarded countless warning signs.  I have followed my heart, my mind, my gut, the advice of friends, the wisdom of strangers, self-help books and the Yellow Brick Road.  I have waited, watched and wondered why he didn't call.  I have put out, put up and played putt-putt.  I tried Buddhism.  I tried prayer.  I tried acting like I just don't care.  And it all has led to the same outcome.

The thrilling highs and inevitable lows on the romance roller coaster are nothing new to me, but I always seem to hold onto my hope.  And, occasionally, when I meet someone in particular, I wonder the age-old question: "Are you the one?" 

Astoundingly, the response has always been a resounding, "NO!"  And still I try.

After an unfortunately brief, painful marriage, I find myself single once again.  But this time, I'm not alone.  I have an incredible son. 

Having a child can be death in the dating world.  It's pretty rare for a guy to NOT date a woman because she doesn't have children, but it's quite the opposite once kids are involved.  And it's scary.  I mean, in the past I was a picker and chooser of users and abusers, but now who I date isn't just about me anymore.  It's about him.  It's about us.

Dating has become an even more complicated, potentially brutal journey that, for me, takes more than a little courage combined with a boatload of amnesia.  Honestly, after all of the horrible relationships and first/second/third dates I've experienced, I don't know how I continue this quest.  I don't know what intangible quality or quackery it is that fortifies me to face another face.  But it's still there laying in wait.  And even when I tell myself that I'm just going to be single and work on me and that I can't handle another heartbreak and that I can't trust my judgment when it comes to the opposite sex, it remains within my being, barely latent, waiting for that someone special to lock eyes with me, to make me laugh, to take me to new heights of ecstacy, to be my best friend, to share the rest of my life in such a fulfilling way that it makes every other person that's ever crossed my path seem trivial... which is why I still shave my legs. 

Years ago, I often intentionally didn't shave on a first date - an old wives' prescription for chastity (which is usually the best first date bet for a second date) - and every once in a while I would embark on one that went so well that I'd think, "I can't believe I didn't shave for this."  How embarrassing.

However, that was not the case last night.  Instead, I was left wondering why I bothered meticulously shaving at all.  I was left with soft, smooth legs and a look of sheer shock and disgust etched on my face, staring at my not-quite-finished plate as I tried to digest the fact that my date had gotten up and left before I was even done eating the meal that I had prepared for us. 

To be fair, up to that point, it had gone rather well, considering that a friend in dire straits had come over in the middle of our evening together because she was upset about being pregnant. Whatever amorous endeavors we might have engaged in disappeared into thin air.  Needless to say, the topic at hand caused some discomfort and, after I said something about not having unprotected relations on a regular basis with someone you couldn't imagine having a family with, he bolted.  Magical. 

This morning, I woke up with that hopeless/hollow/something-in-my-world-is-painfully-not-right feeling that I realized I get when I've been dumped or when someone I care for deeply has passed away.  I find the similarity in sensation fascinating, and by fascinating, I mean that it sucks.  Especially since I hardly even KNOW this guy.  And, I mean, he's JUST a guy for Heaven's sake!  It's not like someone important in my little world had died. 

Yet I was beside myself.  I suppose it's because I realized that if things aren't going to work out with him, then I'm going to continue to be subjected to the disheartening possibilities of rejection, disappointment, socially awkward moments and occasional loneliness that come with being a single person hoping to meet their match in a world filled to the brim with people that AREN'T "the one."  From a statistical standpoint alone, looking for the mythical "one" amongst the billions of people on this lonely planet is far more hopeless than finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Sometimes all of the planning in the world can't prepare you for the world's plans.  And last night's disaster was no different.  It was a cutting reminder of how very sensitive I remain after surviving a series of exceptionally horrible events and relationships.  I realized how quickly I can still let someone into my heart and how easy it is for them to bust it up once that door is cracked.  And it made me wonder once again how it is that I can still put myself out there.  I guess I'm still crazy after all these tears.