dating rant
Feb. 10th, 2004 11:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
winterbadgerI don't see any reason to make this private as such, but I'll
So, I'm talking on the phone last night to a person that I'm hoping to date. I met her through the personals section of Salon.com (it's a separate company called Springstreet, that also solicits through Nerve.com, The Onion, and other popular webhangouts). She seems intelligent and pretty, she's got an interesting job, she's well educated; she's culturally Jewish but not religious. We have things in common. At least, the sort of things that you can find out through personals ads, like liking cats, or enjoying books--and don't laugh; I've met at least one person who seemed capable, intelligent, and well spoken but who admitted openly that she really didn't like books and could easily go for *years* without reading one). We exchanged email, she gave me her number, we've talked on the phone a couple of times. I was hoping to find out if she's free to do something on Monday, which I only just discovered I have off.
Then I mention my cats (since Nicholas is doing his "Hey! I wanna go upstairs and beat up Loki!" yowl over by the interapartmental door) and the conversation turns to my living conditions: how many cats I have, what sort of place I live in. And I make The Disclosure: that I'm sharing a house with my (almost) ex and her GF. That Chris and I separated because she decided that she's a lesbian and, while I don't have a problem with that, I want the option to get seriously committed to someone who actually wants to sleep with men. That, although we're separated, we're still friends and do stuff together from time to time. That I'm not planning on moving out in the immediate future because (a) it's a great house in a wonderful location and (b) we couldn't either of us afford to pay the mortgage alone *and* buy the other person out of their equity, so if either of us leaves we'll have to sell the house.
Long silence.
I make the mistake of conceding that it's an unusual situation, at least to some, to which stipulation she readily agrees. After a little more thought, she says that she doesn't so much think it's odd or a problem that C is gay as that we're still friends. We talk some more, about other things (mostly my reenacting group and our upcoming appearance at Alexandria's celebration of Washington's Birthday at Ft. Ward Park), and then, with the dinner I'd made myself while we were talking rapidly growing cold, I explain that I should be going. We close with (what to my cynical mind sound like) falsely bright assurances that we'll talk again soon. But I'm almost certain that, having told her the truth about my situation, I will probably not be seeing her any time soon.
I really don't get it. I've had this reaction from almost every woman I've met lately. Either the idea that I'm still sharing a house with my ex or the idea that we're still friends totally baffles and (apparently) repels people. I've had one (female) friend tell me that I shouldn't be surprised, that the fact I'm still friends with C, let alone sharing the house with her signals to other women that I'm still emotionally attached to her, that I'm not "over" her and therefore not really emotionally available to other people.
To me, that's total BS. Why should people stop being friends just because they stop being partners? (As a side note, the one person who, before she'd agree to date me, basically made me swear an oath to stay friends with her if our relationship didn't work out--because she hates losing friends to failed rels--completely stopped talking to me after she broke up with me--ostensibly amicably--and barely bothers to reply to social emails with more than a form letter-type sentence. So much for the poster-child of "I want to stay friends with my exes.") Why this insistence on either rapture or hatred? What the fuck is wrong with people that they can't understand and deal with the possibility that people who have been close can part without necessarily becoming bitter enemies? Why are people so ready to shun those who happen to be different from them?
Chris and I were poly most of the time we were married. I found that an almost insurmountable barrier to meeting and dating other women (the "one person" mentioned above being one of the--temporary--exceptions, though the reason she ended up breaking up with me was, basically, that I not only said I was poly but actually *was* poly and therefore wasn't available every one of the minutes she wasn't working). When Chris and I finally, with a great deal of difficulty, decided that we should split up, I thought, "Well, at least now I will have the opportunity to date as a legitimately single person some of the people who have been telling me for the last ten years, 'If you weren't married, yes, I'd love to.'" Well, guess what? I was wrong. Big surprise there.
I've got friends I can hang out with. I have plenty of responsibilities and hobbies that keep me busy. But, given how things have been between me and Chris, it's been at least a year since I've had a full-time mutually fulfilling romantic/physical/emotional relationship with someone else. And I really, really miss that. But it seems as if I'm going to be missing it for a lot longer.
I know I'm not handsome. I know I'm not athletic. I realize that I'm not a hip 20something with a flash car, entree into all the best dance clubs, and a six-figure income. I am, however, fairly smart, sometimes amusing, quite well read, financially independent, a good lover, work out regularly, like the outdoors, and am not actively culture-phobic. Oh, and I'm kind to small furry animals. All that, however, apparently counts for nothing because I don't hate my ex.
How fucked up is that?
So, I'm talking on the phone last night to a person that I'm hoping to date. I met her through the personals section of Salon.com (it's a separate company called Springstreet, that also solicits through Nerve.com, The Onion, and other popular webhangouts). She seems intelligent and pretty, she's got an interesting job, she's well educated; she's culturally Jewish but not religious. We have things in common. At least, the sort of things that you can find out through personals ads, like liking cats, or enjoying books--and don't laugh; I've met at least one person who seemed capable, intelligent, and well spoken but who admitted openly that she really didn't like books and could easily go for *years* without reading one). We exchanged email, she gave me her number, we've talked on the phone a couple of times. I was hoping to find out if she's free to do something on Monday, which I only just discovered I have off.
Then I mention my cats (since Nicholas is doing his "Hey! I wanna go upstairs and beat up Loki!" yowl over by the interapartmental door) and the conversation turns to my living conditions: how many cats I have, what sort of place I live in. And I make The Disclosure: that I'm sharing a house with my (almost) ex and her GF. That Chris and I separated because she decided that she's a lesbian and, while I don't have a problem with that, I want the option to get seriously committed to someone who actually wants to sleep with men. That, although we're separated, we're still friends and do stuff together from time to time. That I'm not planning on moving out in the immediate future because (a) it's a great house in a wonderful location and (b) we couldn't either of us afford to pay the mortgage alone *and* buy the other person out of their equity, so if either of us leaves we'll have to sell the house.
Long silence.
I make the mistake of conceding that it's an unusual situation, at least to some, to which stipulation she readily agrees. After a little more thought, she says that she doesn't so much think it's odd or a problem that C is gay as that we're still friends. We talk some more, about other things (mostly my reenacting group and our upcoming appearance at Alexandria's celebration of Washington's Birthday at Ft. Ward Park), and then, with the dinner I'd made myself while we were talking rapidly growing cold, I explain that I should be going. We close with (what to my cynical mind sound like) falsely bright assurances that we'll talk again soon. But I'm almost certain that, having told her the truth about my situation, I will probably not be seeing her any time soon.
I really don't get it. I've had this reaction from almost every woman I've met lately. Either the idea that I'm still sharing a house with my ex or the idea that we're still friends totally baffles and (apparently) repels people. I've had one (female) friend tell me that I shouldn't be surprised, that the fact I'm still friends with C, let alone sharing the house with her signals to other women that I'm still emotionally attached to her, that I'm not "over" her and therefore not really emotionally available to other people.
To me, that's total BS. Why should people stop being friends just because they stop being partners? (As a side note, the one person who, before she'd agree to date me, basically made me swear an oath to stay friends with her if our relationship didn't work out--because she hates losing friends to failed rels--completely stopped talking to me after she broke up with me--ostensibly amicably--and barely bothers to reply to social emails with more than a form letter-type sentence. So much for the poster-child of "I want to stay friends with my exes.") Why this insistence on either rapture or hatred? What the fuck is wrong with people that they can't understand and deal with the possibility that people who have been close can part without necessarily becoming bitter enemies? Why are people so ready to shun those who happen to be different from them?
Chris and I were poly most of the time we were married. I found that an almost insurmountable barrier to meeting and dating other women (the "one person" mentioned above being one of the--temporary--exceptions, though the reason she ended up breaking up with me was, basically, that I not only said I was poly but actually *was* poly and therefore wasn't available every one of the minutes she wasn't working). When Chris and I finally, with a great deal of difficulty, decided that we should split up, I thought, "Well, at least now I will have the opportunity to date as a legitimately single person some of the people who have been telling me for the last ten years, 'If you weren't married, yes, I'd love to.'" Well, guess what? I was wrong. Big surprise there.
I've got friends I can hang out with. I have plenty of responsibilities and hobbies that keep me busy. But, given how things have been between me and Chris, it's been at least a year since I've had a full-time mutually fulfilling romantic/physical/emotional relationship with someone else. And I really, really miss that. But it seems as if I'm going to be missing it for a lot longer.
I know I'm not handsome. I know I'm not athletic. I realize that I'm not a hip 20something with a flash car, entree into all the best dance clubs, and a six-figure income. I am, however, fairly smart, sometimes amusing, quite well read, financially independent, a good lover, work out regularly, like the outdoors, and am not actively culture-phobic. Oh, and I'm kind to small furry animals. All that, however, apparently counts for nothing because
How fucked up is that?
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-10 08:51 am (UTC)You may not be a hip 20 something, but we like you ok. Come over more often!
Re:
Date: 2004-02-10 09:27 am (UTC)