To Thine Own Self Be True

When my ridiculously bad dates started pouring out the edges of my fingertips, clacking on to my keyboard and then mysteriously showing up on the inter-webs (not so mysterious, I suppose, when you are the one responsible for hitting your very own publish button), I started to worry. Not because I cared if any of these idiots saw their moments inked into the Internet, but rather the impact it might have on my future (fingers-crossed) non-idiot dates. I assumed, at a certain point, men might stop dating me altogether. I even considered changing my Bumble bio to: I’ll probably write about you.

Surprise. I’m the idiot.

For starters, I underestimated the male ego. They’re not shy about their antics being paraded around in digital outer space. They want to end up on the blog, no matter the outcome. And then, here’s the irritating paradox, the biggest fuckboys are the ones who make the most grandiose claims that they’re going to be the final good story (and best believe that there will be a final good story, but it will not belong to one of them).

Public service announcement. There are non-idiots out there. Their normality is simply masked by the majority stupidity, arrogance, and assholiness.

So, back to fuckboys. And their ignorant articulations of the fact that they’re going to save me from all others of their kind. Please note that I don’t actually think that they believe what they’re saying; their aforementioned egos simply want the fifteen minutes of fame – if this blog can suffice as such.

I know you’re ready, so let’s go there.

Once upon a time, I happened to meet a guy on Bumble who actually lived in Breckenridge (from Austin, yes, but no longer a local Texan and definitely not passing through clad in a Buccaneers jersey overtop his ski jacket). In fact, his banter game was so strong that he asked me to marry him at lunch the following Friday and I didn’t even so much as flinch.

Me: “I should be available. Let me check my Google Calendar and shoot you an invite. I’ll just need to be home by dinner.”

Clearly, romance is not dead.

Two days into our text message diatribe and a day before our first date, I lure him into “the worst-case scenario” game. It’s a charade that I typically reserve for pre-date FaceTime shenanigans with my best friend, something that we adopted through our mutual obsession with This is Us. The show’s power couple, Beth and Randall, play out the most comical of worst-case scenarios when preparing to make a choice or have a conversation that could, inevitably, end poorly. In our version, we hypothesize every way that a date could, inevitably, end tragically.

He never stops talking about his ex. Better yet, he still lives with her.

He smells like onions. Better yet, he tastes like onions.

He is actually a serial killer. Better yet, he has been unemployed for over a year while calling himself an infamous entrepreneur.

You know, all very normal things to fear in the age of digital dating.

There is only one rule for “the worst-case scenario” game: you are allowed to articulate all the bad things that you’re thinking, and the other person must listen without judgment or consequence. Period. Since 97% of these things never come true, it surprisingly alleviates most of the dramatic tension that is involved with a maiden meet-up.

Austin was new to the game, so I took the liberty of going first.

Me: “You have six toes on your right foot. You live with your mom. And, oh yeah, you’re a fuckboy.”

Austin: “I only have one extra pinky toe on my right foot. I actually do live in my mom’s basement. And, what’s a fuckboy?”

*sends screenshot of Urban Dictionary definition*

Austin: “I am most certainly not that.”

If I had a dollar…well, you know the rest. And, shame on me for laughing at the first two sentences and then thinking that he might actually mean the third statement.

Because here’s the kicker (there’s always a kicker). He plays the game in reverse with such a shocking amount of sincerity that I’m actually speechless.

Austin: “Worst-case scenario. We get along great. Really great. And you hitch up your Airstream next month and roll out of here.”

I recall physically choking on such an assertion. Because, yes, I’m pursuing home. But home is no longer a place for my feet to stand; it is a person for my soul to silently sit beside, a hand to hold, a body to envelope my being as we crawl into bed each night.

Please note that this is the same guy who googled me and found my blog, which he described as thought-provoking while also highlighting the immense beauty and entertaining sense-of-humor of the blog’s author (cough, cough). He also informed me that everything I said about no longer wanting to travel alone and not really understanding if anything was truly beautiful without it being shared were words being plucked directly from his adventure-seeking, outdoor-loving, relationship-questing brain.

And I believed him. So, I repeat. I’m the idiot.

I’ll save you from all the first-date details and leave you with the overarching fact that it was good. Because, it was. Good. He picked me up from my RV park, helped me untie my figure eight knot when I couldn’t untie it myself, and happily supported my decision to consume late-night Mexican food at Frisco’s finest. Most importantly, he seemed to share the same affinity for accidental limb grazing (I’m here for it).

Homeboy dropped me off just after midnight with, what seemed to be, an interest in date number two. And, when our banter immediately flowed into the following day, I assumed that I’d hit the Bumble jackpot (famous last words).

It was now Saturday. I had spent the day snowboarding. He had spent the day skiing. And at 10:30pm, when he had returned from the deep corners of some ulterior Colorado climate, he asked if I wanted to watch a movie. At my Airstream.

At. My. Airstream.

And this didn’t feel good to me. Because I don’t live in a house. When you come over to my Airstream, you are coming over to my room. We are not sitting on the couch to watch a movie with any semblance of space. We are lying in my bed that is smaller than the one that folded out from the wall in my college dorm room. It’s personal. Really personal.

And, what I’ve learned is that far too many men are more interested in the Airstream (or trying to get lucky in said Airstream) than they are interested in me. And since the vast majority of these gems don’t actually make it past date one, I’ve initiated what I call The Three-Date Airstream Access Rule (okay, okay, camo pants got an invite after date two, but I’m not one to argue that sometimes rules are made to be broken).

This particular rule does a couple things. One, it weeds out the idiots (no, I’m not trying to simply get laid). Two, it encourages me to set boundaries (something that I’ve struggled doing in the past). And, the marriage of these two things serves as the catalyst for the foundation of any successful relationship: trust and respect.

Well, Austin didn’t like my answer. Even after my definition of The Three-Date Airstream Access Rule (as if a definition is needed) and my unnecessary explanation that I was, in fact, already watching a Hallmark movie while walking on the clubhouse treadmill, he proceeded to tell me for a second time that he’d shower and be over shortly.

Did I stutter?

At this point, I’m perplexed how someone who has shown all the signs of male chivalry can be so distastefully deaf, or blind, to the words that are being transmitted quite matter-of-factly through my phone screen.

I offer a solution. Because I thought that I still wanted to see him again. And in true Stephanie fashion, I felt compelled to relieve the perceived awkwardness that was pushing its weight so feverishly down on to my chest.

Me: “I’ll come over to your place tomorrow at a slightly more reasonable hour, when I’m not going to fall asleep drooling on your throw pillows, and we’ll watch any and all of the movies.”

Austin: “I like this plan. But I must say that tomorrow is not going to work for me.”

Okay, fine, you have a life. I get it. I don’t know if this answer is a payback response to your bruised male ego that wants to come over now or if your mom really comes down to the basement on Sunday nights to bake cookies. Regardless, it’s a proposition for date two, and neither one of us owes the other any sort of justification for a lack of availability. Perfect. Great. Everything is fine.

Only, it wasn’t fine. We rain check, and he disappears into the oblivion. Austin and his green bubbles (how I loathe those damn green bubbles) seep deep down into the recesses of my text message chat log.

He didn’t get what he wanted, so he ghosted.

The old me would have taken this personally. Honestly, the old me would have acquiesced to his declarative statements in the beginning as if, for some reason, I had no choice. The old me didn’t yet understand that the right man, a good man, would ask for three dates right then and there to expedite his Airstream access. The old me believed that my worth was wrapped up in the acceptance of someone who couldn’t ask to stand beside me in any possible public setting. The old me cared, way too much, about pleasing a person for the sake of merely pleasing a person.

The old me didn’t know me.

I didn’t understand those vibrations that resounded inside my belly when something didn’t feel okay. I didn’t have some semblance of expectation for how I deserved to be spoken to, courted, touched. I didn’t speak my truth because I was confused by the sound of my own voice. I didn’t know what I needed in order to choose someone who, I believe, should be a fully whole person who sharpens the half of me that is weaker without the strength and skill of his two hands, heart, and head. I didn’t trust life’s timing to support me in creating the union that my spirit aches to explore.

But, now, now I know.

So, to every fuckboy who thinks that he’s going to save me, I don’t need you and I most certainly don’t need to be saved. I do not have the time to attempt to understand your antics.

To the non-idiots, I’m fully aware that you’re surviving right there alongside me (because I don’t know that a fuckgirl is a thing, but I have no doubt in my mind that you’re dealing with your own demons). I truly believe that, man or woman, we all suck at dating. I simply only have the authority to speak from my female point-of-view (although I tried to tackle the male’s point-of-view here).

And to camo pants, who I seemingly managed to dream up on a snowy day in January, the one who mysteriously appeared to stand outside of this box of mating mishaps and dating dejections, I’d break my Rule again for you. Over and over and over again.

Because, this scene that is dating – defined by both its desire and drudgery – is as much about me learning myself as it is about me learning another. My work is to sharpen my gut instincts that, for many years, I had learned to silence. I’m called to open myself up to feeling (even when sometimes it is deemed too much). I must learn to let down my walls for those who are worthy and wave goodbye to those who are eager to satiate only their own self-interests.

It’s imperative that I continue to teach myself about myself.

Because at the end of all of these encounters, I can only return to the importance of honesty. And a fuckboy does not possess such a virtuous trait. But, I can. Inside of the madness, I have the choice to show up with integrity. And integrity will empower me to manifest a match that fulfills and challenges me to the core of my deepest fantasy if only I give it a chance.

So, yes, I’ll keep writing. And, yes, it will probably be about you.