Can’t Help But Wonder: The Ex-Scale, Skinny Jeans, and the Bare Minimum
Is the dating scene so terrible or am i not over my ex? Probably both.
In the recent weeks — since I broke up with someone I considered the love of my life — I’ve been welcomed back onto the dating scene with some of the most horrible dates in my 32 years of living. Not all of them were disasters. There was one in particular where everything seemed perfect, the kind of date you want to bottle up and replay when you need to believe in possibility again. But there was no interest to pursue it further — at least, not from his side.
And it made me wonder about the way we measure love.
How sometimes one person becomes the “Big” in our story — the one who defines the scale, even long after they’re gone. As my friend Curry once said: “And I can’t help but wonder, is Big always going to be the measure I hold my love life against in the future?”
I don’t have the answer yet. All I know is that heartbreak leaves us with ghosts, and sometimes it takes time, dates, and even disappointment to realize those ghosts don’t get to define us forever.
Yes, once the heartbreak is fresh, every guy seems to be measured against the ex-scale — and those rose-colored glasses make it impossible for anyone new to live up to those standards. That’s one of the great difficulties of re-entering the dating arena: carrying the weight of comparisons you don’t even mean to make.
But then there’s the other difficulty… the one that can keep you single for a long time even if your ex is completely out of your mind.
Well, the other one is — drumroll, please — men. Wow. They can talk you out of playful mode so quickly it almost feels like whiplash.
Lately, I’ve lost count of how many horrible dates I’ve had. The last one — yesterday — was the cherry on top. He came 15 minutes late (and mind you, he was German). Quick hug, straight to the table. I hadn’t even had a chance to sit before the word-vomit began.
Two hours straight — no exaggeration — and not a single question about me. Now, I know I’m a journalist and yes, I can ask great questions, but for the love of God… I wasn’t there for an interview. In that time I learned everything: his ex-wife, her ex-boyfriend, the new city she moved to, his house, his family, his job, his best friend, and his marriage — the list goes on.
Some friends tried to say, “Maybe he was just nervous.” Trust me when I say: that was not the case. Deep down, he just needed a fresh ear to listen. And fine — I get that. But if I’ve just played therapist and interviewer for two hours, at least buy me a drink.
Nope. He paid for his beer, and I paid for my wine. Which is fine… if it’s a second date. But hello? You’re 45 and you can’t buy someone a drink?
Before our date was over, my own word-vomit began. I’m sorry if I traumatized him — but honestly, I did it for all the girlies out there. I started listing my notes of the night: You talked for two hours without asking a single thing about me. You’re 45 and still walking around in skinny jeans. You couldn’t even buy me a drink. The list went on.
Let’s just say he unmatched me before he even reached the corner.
But before disappearing, he managed to get one last word in: apparently, I’m a gold digger — simply for expecting my drink to be paid for. Mind you, this is coming from a 45-year-old waiter. Well, dear sir, you don’t have gold to dig… so I think you’re safe.
And I can’t help but wonder… when did the bare minimum — a simple drink, a simple question — become too much to ask for?
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