Singledom

This is an oldie but goodie. I wrote it after I found myself unexpectedly single on this lonely island and I ventured into the world of internet dating.

I have so much to tell you. I had the craziest weekend.
I went on three—count ‘em—three Match.com dates yesterday.

I know, I know. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just that I’m crazy busy this week and it was the only way I could do it, you know, fit them all in, I don’t know what I was thinking but I don’t recommend you do it. It’s exhausting.

Plus, everyone’s been telling me to “get back out there.” And I felt it. I thought maybe they’re right. Maybe it will help me forget.

So the first guy, ugh. I was supposed to see him last weekend but I cancelled. I just couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. I was walking over the bridge on my way into the city the day of the date, weighing the pros and cons. Thinking, “Well, maybe I’ll like him enough to sleep with him.” I check my cell when I get into Manhattan and I saw that I missed his call and he left me a message:

“Hey. It’s Randy. It’s such a beautiful day. If I had known it was going to be like this we could have made plans to go to the beach or something. Why don’t we meet in Battery Park, have some coffee, and then maybe we can go to a movie or something after that.”

Woah. Woah. Woah. Easy does it, Randy. Beach? Movie? What the fuck? We haven’t even met yet. Let’s start with coffee. 45 minutes for the first date, that’s what I’ve told myself. That way if you don’t like him, it’s long enough that it doesn’t seem rude and if you do like him, it leaves you wanting more.

But this? I can’t do this. So I sent him a text message, passive-aggressive I know, but I gave him like five hours notice. The guilt over canceling on him slowly begins to grow as the day progresses. When I finally get back into Brooklyn that night, I feel bad and I call him. We decide to talk the next day and make plans for later in the week.

Oh, did I tell you? He’s 43 and he’s an actor. But he’s also in real estate. I was hoping he was more in real estate. And 43? I don’t know what I was thinking. My mom called me last week. She and my father had just come from dinner with the gay mailman, his partner and a friend of theirs. My parents are the token straights wherever they go. More to the point, they collect gays. My mom is like the Mother Theresa of South Jersey. Dad is the same way.

My dad went to this workshop on tolerance at his job one day. They had signs all over the room. The leader told them to go and stand under the sign that you felt was closest to your heart. So my dad goes and stands under the sign that says, “YOUNG GAY MAN.” And there are all these burly guys looking at him like he’s a pedophile or something. He’s crazy.
Anyway, mom and dad are at dinner with the gays and they’re, obviously, discussing my love life. Or lack there of at the moment. They all decide collectively that I need to date someone older, which I totally agree with, someone in his 40s.

Woah. “40s, Mom?”
“Yes. Someone who’s together. Settled.”

“I don’t want to settle mom.”

“That’s not what I said and it’s not what I mean.”

“Ok. Fine. I know what you mean. Mom. But I don’t want settled. That’s boring. Besides The Mormon was older.”

“How old was he?”
“36.”
“Oh.”
Score.

So Randal is 43. We’ve exchanged a few emails. Played phone tag. But I can tell already that there’s something…off about him. Something not quite right. And maybe it’s the desperation of being a 43 year old gay man in New York City. Anyway. One date. I committed and I guess that’s why I signed up for Match in the first place.

So the next day I’m waiting to meet my friend for brunch when my phone rings. It’s Randal. I put it through to voicemail thinking I’ll talk to him later. Said friend is running late so I check the message:
“Hey. It’s Randal.”
I don’t like the sound of his voice. It’s too controlled. It’s too actory, too spot-on. And is it Randy or Randal? There’s a big difference.
“It’s almost 2. It’s weird that I haven’t heard from you. I thought we were going to meet up today and do something. So this is weird. Well, I’ve already made brunch plans so that can’t happen. And if I don’t hear from you soon I’m going to make plans for tonight. This is weird. Call me back.”

What the fuck? I said we’d talk today and make plans for later in the week. This guy is crazy. So I get home later that day and there’s an email from him:

“What happened to you today?”

Sigh. So I email him back:

“Sorry. There must have been a miscommunication. It was my understanding that we were to talk at some point today and make plans for later in the week.”
Almost immediately I receive:
“We agreed we were to talk this morning do something today. The plans were loose but they included us meeting today to do something. I was very clear and you sounded clear. It sounds like other plans came in for you and you took those instead without letting me know. I hate to start anything with such flakiness and miscommunication. I am not comfortable carrying forward at this point.”
Ok. Fine with me. Then almost immediately I get:

“I may not have been clear last night. But I wanted to do something with you. I have had so much flakiness with the guys in NYC I am really wary. Please do not contact me if you are not sincere and cannot follow through. I have a real issue with that. Otherwise, I love the way you communicate and like your interests and the way you describe your low key sort of home life which I totally identify with.”

Uh huh.

“Randal. I think maybe we should just let it go. I am not flakey but I feel like this is already too complicated. I wish you luck out there.”
You’d leave it at that right? No. I wake up the next morning to another email from him.
“Can you please tell me what I did wrong…blah blah blah…I’m trying to work on my communication skills. “

You know what. I think it’s great that he’s working on his communication skills. He wants to know what he did wrong, well, I’ll tell him. So I type up an email about how I felt he was reactionary and it put me off and I’ve had people like that in my life and I’ve gotten rid of them because I don’t like it. And how if there was already that much drama before a date I don’t want to pursue it.
So I get an email back! Enough already. Basta. Fini.

“Thank you for being so clear, kind and concise. You are a very good writer. And I am a very good guy. I’d like you to get to know me. Will you please consider getting coffee with me?”

I hastily type back: “Let me think about it.” And I let it go.

Meanwhile, I’m emailing back and forth with two other guys. And I make plans with them for Sunday. They both seem nice. I don’t smell desperate or crazy on them. Yet. But we’ll see.

So I get an email from crazy Randy later in the week: Please just meet me for coffee.
God. Ok. “I can meet you any time on Saturday after 10:30 and before 5. Sunday is busy for me.”

Almost immediately, “Saturday is not so good for me. I have a meeting with a director first thing in the morning, then I’m going out of town to golf…blah blah blah. I have church Sunday morning at 11am.”
This is ridiculous. So I write. “Ok. Coffee. Sunday. 9:30. Before church.”

I figure he’ll say “no’ because who wants to have a date at 9:30 on a Sunday morning?
“9:30, it is.”
And, I couldn’t be any meaner. “Ok. I’ll probably be coming from the gym so I won’t have time to shower and I’ll be sweaty.”

The other dates are much easier to schedule. So I have a 9:30 in Chelsea, a 2 in Williamsburg and a 7 in the West Village. It’s a good thing I scheduled auditions for 10 years, I’m good at this.

Sunday morning roles around. All I want to do is cancel on Crazy. But I don’t. I don’t make it to the gym. But I go in my gym clothes so that I can go immediately after, I have a feeling I’m going to have to.

I get into the city early, as usual. So I get off the train at Union Square and walk. My iPod on and the streets so still and quiet at this early hour that I can sing along, out loud as I make my way to 23rd Street. Then the song comes on. The song that kills me. And he’s there with me all of a sudden. The Mormon. I can’t push him away and I wish I felt the way Cyndi Lauper sings about in this song:

I don’t want to see your face.

I don’t want to hear your name.

I don’t want a thing, you just stay away, baby.

Don’t want to know if you’re alright.

Or what you’re doing with your life.

Don’t want to hear you say that you’ll stay in touch, maybe.

I’ll get by just fine.

So if you’re going then, darlin’, goodbye. Goodbye now.

Don’t call me in the middle of the night no more.

Don’t expect me to be there.

Don’t think that it’ll be the way it was before.

I’m not over you yet

And I don’t think I care.

And I don’t want to be your friend.

I’ll forget we ever met.

I’ll forget I ever let,

Ever let you into this heart of mine, baby.

You just gotta let me be.

You gotta keep away from me,

Cause all I wanna be is just free of you, baby.

Don’t you come around

And say you still care about me,

Go now. Go now.
Don’t call me in the middle of the night no more.

Don’t expect me to be there.

Don’t think that it’ll be the way it was before.

I’m not over you yet.

And I don’t think I care.

And I don’t want to be your friend.

You take it casually

And that’s what’s killing me.

Don’t call me in the middle of the night no more.

Don’t expect me to be there.

Don’t think that it’ll be the way it was before.

I don’t want to be your friend…
But I don’t want to let go. Aye, there’s the rub.

And I seriously just kept repeating it over and over and over again. Singing it out loud, not even caring about the people who walked by me on the street. This was probably not the best way to start a day of dating. But I didn’t want to be dating. Not these guys. No.

So I order a green tea and I sit at my table and I pull out a book and I wait. 9:35. 9:40. And I think, “What’s the college rule about class being canceled? If your professor is more than 10 minutes late you can leave?” Does that hold for dates as well?
And me? I’m dressed in total work out gear; a powder-blue muscle t, khaki nylon cargo pants, an orange baseball cap, a jacket on top of it. Pretty much an outfit strategically put together to say, I don’t care. I didn’t even wash my face.

And just as I’m about to pack it up, he walks in.

I can tell it’s him immediately and I don’t like what I see. It’s that older, Chelsea gay man look. He has a nice body. He obviously takes care of himself. Small, tight muscles. He’s wearing a salmon-colored polo short, khaki shorts, and loafers with no socks. Like we’re in Sag Harbor. The entire look says control. I hate it.

He sits down and launches into his life story. And he talks in his “actor voice”, so controlled and modulated but not registering any emotion whatsoever. I can only image what kind of actor he is. And he talks and he talks and he talks for 45 minutes. I felt like I never even got a word in. Nothing. Fine by me. We walk out and say goodbye and I’m really careful not to say, “See you later” or anything else that could be misconstrued as me showing even the slightest hint of interest.

Date number two is better. He’s a nice guy. Smart, funny, my age. He’s a writer. An hour plus flew by but there was just no chemistry. Talk about uptight. I wanted to shake him by the shoulders just to get him to relax.

The last one? The last one was surprisingly good. We met at his apartment which I thought was weird. On the elevator up I thought, “What if I was a psychotic stalker, or a serial killer?” For a moment I thought, “What if he is?” But I can handle myself.

The conversation was easy. It turns out we have a lot of friends in common. We went to Billy’s and sat outside and ate cake. It was really nice.

I walked him home and I kissed him in front of his apartment building. It was weird to kiss someone who wasn’t…Not better or worse, just different. He did make me forget about…him…for a while. That was nice.

What does the wife say in Scenes From A Marriage? What’s her name? The character’s name is Marianne. The husband is Johan. My parents are John and Marianne. Isn’t that funny. That just occurred to me. Anyway she says, “There are days when I hate you for what you did to me. And then there are days when I don’t think of you for moments at a time. It’s quite lovely really.”

I know we were only together for six months. It’s been over two since he broke up with me. He called six months “a blip” in the scheme of things. But not for me. It wasn’t a blip for me. I thought it was going to be forever, you know. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. I still want to. Six months. But I can’t measure love by time. Would it hurt more or less after a year, or two? I don’t give my love easily or blindly. And I can’t get it back. I wouldn’t take it back. He needs someone to love him. He, at least, needs to know someone loves him. And I do. I always will. It’ll change but there will always be love in my heart for him. I told him that.

I pulled my profile from Match. I’m not ready for this.