Dating is a war. A messy battle field strewn sloppy with the mess of half-stitched hearts and pockmarked egos and bruised souls. I learned this on Friday, when I was suddenly juggling more men than I could handle. I am still uncomfortable with this juggling business. My sense of loyalty makes it hard for me not to feel like a Benedict Arnold to these gentleman, because juggling is not my modus operandi, and yet here I am, doing it. I do not belong to any one of them, and they do not belong to me. There are technically no rules of engagement here, which is perhaps why I feel l so out of control. Maybe my difficulty lies in feeling like I am betraying myself by doing this. Maybe not. I don't know.
On Friday I traipsed down the rue de Rivoli with my newly adopted study abroad student, C. She's adorable and a junior and here for a semester and we'd grabbed hot chocolate at Angelina's and had a great afternoon. I like her and am looking forward to doing other fun things with her in Paris.
We were sauntering down the boulevard past the Louvre when Monsieur Engineer, still disappointed that we hadn't been able to see each other Thursday, let me know he--in fact--would not be leaving Paris that night to spend the weekend up in his hometown in the north, but would be staying to look at apartments.
At the same time, Monsieur Bob, a more recent prospect, let me know that his friends from Portugal had in fact canceled last minute and he was now free for dinner plans. He'd called a few times in the week with date options and was carefully planning a marathon date for Sunday, but could also do Friday, or both. I was a bit overwhelmed.
Honest to sweet baby Jesus, this was the first time in my life I have had two men vying for my time simultaneously, let alone pitted against one another unknowingly.
I then turned to C and explained the Sexpat project. We kept walking down the street and popping into shoe shops to admire leather boots while I figured out who to contact first. Since I already had Sunday planned with Monsieur Bob, I went with Monsieur Engineer. I left C near Saint-Paul and hopped line one back towards my place on the Left Bank.
* * *
In the meanwhile, E has been dealing with his own battle field. He's unraveled a lot about his Ex this past week and I've gotten an earful. I do not mind listening for the sake of a friend, but I am uncomfortable and frankly, quite angry when he compares me to her. He often jokingly quips:
¨ I can't help you with letters of motivation, you'll end up like Her and then we'll all be cursed!¨
Hey buddy, LISTEN UP. First off, I don't need or want your help. If I did I would've asked for it and thanks but no thanks, I don't. Second, I AM NOT YOUR EX. Do you understand how downright INSULTING it is for you to compare me to her given your new opinion of her? Third, I HAVE NOTHING IN COMMON WITH HER AND AM AS FAR FROM BEING HER AS COULD BE.
Get it? Got it? Good.
I just about blew my gasket yesterday when he texted to let me know yet again another thing about this damn Ex of his. It was late at night and he was moping about how it had been such a beautiful day but he hadn't bothered to go outside because he was too busy figuring out relationship fallout. This week has been all about him.
Given that yesterday was the 8th anniversary of my dad's passing, I hinted that I was in no fantastic mood either. I have slightly hinted all week that I was not particularly looking forward to this weekend. He didn't catch on. I finally texted back:
¨ I couldn't really appreciate the weather today either. Today is the 8th anniversary of my dad's death.¨
He did not know previously that my dad died. How could he? He had been so self absorbed all week he couldn't catch a hint. He replied with. ¨ You should have called me, we could've gotten a drink to boost your morale, why didn't you?¨
Because this week has been about you you and more you and you are so emotionally unavailable it isn't even funny.
¨ It's not something I share with a lot of people,¨ adding that ¨I'm gifted enough to hide my sadness behind a smile,¨ and ¨You were so preoccupied with your histoire de merde I didn't want to bother you.¨
He offered to keep me company. I replied that was nice but not necessary.
I have not heard from him since.
* * *
So instead of worrying myself about E and his need to completely douse himself in his own relationship fallout narcissicism, I went on a date on Sunday with Monsieur Bob. Bob is 27 and a huge sweet heart, a chef de projet for a communications company. He's buying his first apartment next week. He is mature and responsible and kind. He had called several times last week to set up the perfect marathon date: we met at 12h30 at the Luxembourg then grabbed a glass of wine, followed by sushi for lunch (we both like ethnic cuisine of all sorts) and ending with mint tea at the Mosquée de Paris, which I love.
On paper, Bob is one of those people I should like and should have chemistry with. But that is just it: he is a should. I truly enjoyed our conversation--I geeked out like nobody's business talking the Higgs-Boson particle with him and a whole lot of other existential stuff. We both have disabled siblings. We'e both athletes. We both like learning. We have a lot in common. But there is just nothing there for me. God, how I wish there was. I really, honestly do.
There is something to be said about meeting people randomly online and THEN going on a date with them. It's an entirely different experience than meeting people in person....when you encounter people in real life at a party, through a mutual friend, at work, or under heaven knows what circumstances, there's the hazard of collision and the chemistry of attraction that fuels a phone call and anticipation. There is already a basis of interest there. A mystery to pursue.
I find this missing in my online-to-real-life encounters. I have not locked eyes with these gentlemen across a room and nervously wished they would come and talk to me and then ask for my number. I am flying blind and while, when I meet them, I enjoy their company, with more than half of them I can tell within the first ten minutes if there could be anything there.
Call it rash. Call it judgmental. Call me a twenty something. But I know what I want when I see it and when I sense it in my gut and all this dating business is just sharpening my ability to figure these things out. Lately, it has given me the impression that I am a lonely fonctionnaire sitting behind a desk at some bureau or prefecture with a huge queue in front of me, lined up with their papers and their qualifications and their numbers, and I am sitting there going:
¨Next. Next. Next. Next,¨ just waiting and hoping for a good one to arrive and not to slip through my fingers.
Dating is a battle field. I am not afraid of scars. What I am afraid of is not having anything to fight for, because for now, the ones I would fight for do not want me to fight for them. And I have learned the hard way not to fight myself over this matter.
I must pick my battles.
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