Dating Derp

I’ve… enjoyed… a rather, erm, prolific dating life.

My last blog post (briefly mentioning my rather embarrassing recent lack of charm/wit) spurred one of my friends to leave a rather (tongue-in-cheek, I’m sure) surprised comment on Facebook. “Youre not the witty Rachel we all know and love while youre on dates?!” he wrote. “Weird.” Please ignore the sarcasm and pretend for a moment that he’s being serious.

It’s not just me, I swear. Lately, I’ve been on some sort of a horror loop of bad dating experiences. I take full blame for my moments of derp, but sometimes, the moment can’t be attributed to me. And sometimes, the moment is completely situational. Fortunately, I’ve never had to deal with anything that is quite this calibre… but seriously. Sometimes the awkward is just too much.

Tangent: Alex Skarsgard and Kate Bosworth can corroborate that extreme awkwardness (like acting out a rape scene with your significant other that will be marketed for public consumption) is just too much for a relationship to weather.

Dear Alex: I’m single. (Credit)

Time for 2 stories. Strap yourself in, as this is going to be a long one (story #2’s level of cringe probably exceeds story #1; story 1 is just about sanity).

Let’s start with my mother and JDate. At the end of last summer, my extremely Jewish/middle eastern mother decided that I’ve dated too many goys. I agreed to try dating in the faith. She bought me a subscription, and I’m sure she was thrilled to do so, because it was certainly a step in the right direction of giving her grandchildren– and my grandmother great grand babies– well before my uterus crumbles to dust when I’m thirty. At least I have the better part of a decade to accomplish this.

Let me preface this by saying that I did meet some genuinely lovely people on JDate that I hope I can still consider friends… It just didn’t work out.

Internet dating offers women and men a completely different experience. Men are expected to be the hunters, I think, and most women just sit around and wait for someone to get in touch in order not to look “militant” (yes, that is the word someone annoyed by my initializing contact used at one point). The problem with a messaging platform is that it doesn’t really allow you to gauge sincerity (only stupidity) and allows men to lie about their height all the time .I’m not a shallow person and don’t have a “type,” but I do prefer taller men. Perhaps the worst aspect is that internet dating doesn’t really allow people you’re gently letting down to “get it.” Or, perhaps they do “get it” and are just incredibly creepy.

…or weep, either works. (Credit)

One such guy is someone I’ll call “Nate.” I never met Nate, but I made the mistake of giving him my phone number. After an initial conversation in which we talked exclusively about the boutique hotel business (and nothing says “Hey, I want to pursue a relationship with you” quite the way booking hotel reservations for other people does), I would be conveniently “busy” for meetups or further conversations. One day, however, my stupid, bleeding heart got in the way.

“Hi, Rachel. Listen, I know you said that you’re usually too busy to date and stuff, but I could really use a friend right now…” Goddamn it. I told him that I had a few minutes if he needed to talk (I figured, if someone needs to unload on someone they know next to nothing about, he must be desperate). “Well, this weekend, I went to Vegas with my cousin, and they wanted to go clubbing.” He proceeded to tell me how he walked in, he noticed intense strobe lights. “And the thing is, Rachel, I’m sick. Real sick. The lights made me sick.”

I’m pretty sure I won a record for most exaggerated eye roll in history. “Nate, epilepsy isn’t a ‘sickness.'” I should say that I understand how potentially serious the condition could be, but throughout my life, I’ve had people in my life with varying degrees of illness who are perfectly capable of living normally and don’t endeavor to foster sympathy in others in order to achieve their goals. This was looking dangerously like someone who did endeavor to do the latter. “You’re not broken,” I told him.

There was a long pause. “How did you know I had epilepsy?” Really? Really?!?

I’m pretty sure I facepalmed. “Strobe lights. You got sick. It’s a well-known fact that if you’re epileptic, you should probably avoid flashing images and strobe lights because they trigger seizures.” At this point, I’m pretty sure I was either talking to the worst liar on the face of the earth (I think most epileptics would know what might cause them to seize), someone with absolutely no awareness of his own health/well-being, or simply someone who considered me deeply ignorant or idiotic. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so frustrated or irritated. He didn’t strike me as developmentally challenged, either (just incredibly self-absorbed), and I do try to be sensitive in those cases; in this one, I genuinely think that it was a pity ploy.

Picard facepalm, because your derp hurts. (Credit)

He then proceeded to ramble for the next twenty minutes about how his doctor increased his medication because according to him, strobe lights don’t trigger seizures (perhaps I misgauged where the idiocy lay, but wouldn’t you want a second opinion for your serious condition? Wouldn’t you do some of your own research?), and he can’t drive, so he can’t work, and what if he loses his job, and his future is screwed completely, and thank goodness he lives with his parents, and blah blah blah blah… I don’t really know what he said; instead, I remember thinking: Really, Creepy McCreepster? You’re telling all of this to a girl you have never met, who you said you want to marry/have children with (ugh), who you call/text every day regardless of response… You’re a real winner, man. You’re making me want to date you more with each passing minute.

Fortunately, I had an excuse to leave when my cousins arrived to go out to dinner. I genuinely tried to be sympathetic, but at some point, too much is too much, and I’m not about to hold a pity party for anyone. I told him that I hoped things worked out and hung up. The calls and texts and emails continued for another two and a half months and went ignored until I received a gchat message one day.

“Do you want to go out anytime or not?” he asked. Not, I told him. “Can I ask why you felt the need to prolong this for so long, then?” Like doctor, like patient, in regards to idiocy, apparently. With a neat little bonus of passive-aggression.

“I tried to be polite earlier on when I declined to date you, and you explained that you understood,” I responded carefully. “Quite frankly, I’d think not responding to your daily multiple texts or emails and not returning your phone calls is a pretty good indicator that I’m not interested. I don’t know how that was ‘prolonging’ anything. I’m sorry.”

(Credit)

I’m still not sure if he was codependent or stalkerish, but I’m pretty sure he had picked out wedding china already. I think I came out ahead.

Story number two involves Persian arrangements.

I always thought the Persian system of khastegaree was outdated and archaic (khastegar means “suitor” in Farsi, and essentially, khastegaree means to go and suitor–yes, I’m verbing it; basically, suitors are arranged by parents). I’m also incredibly Americanized, so the prospect of having an arrangement made for me is distasteful. I’m the kind of person who will, just to be petulant, do the exact opposite of what I’m asked.

Fortunately, while my mother is Persian, she’s not the F.O.B. type that has taken over Beverly Hills, Brentwood, and Westwood. Her accent is minimal, she has a career and her own practice, and she married an American (also probably why I don’t particularly care for the whole Persianness of arrangements). She hasn’t taken me to synagogue to flaunt me and she hasn’t forced me to date hand-picked people based on their family’s reputation or wealth.

No, Mom has been generous enough to wait one whole year after I finish all of my schooling before she starts forcing people on me (unfortunately, undergrad has been finished for almost a year now, and I’m about to enter a 2-year MFA-type program, so my introduction to the meat market is creeping up on me).

That doesn’t mean other parents are as generous, however. Though Mom hasn’t exactly taken me to be shown off regularly, apparently people are still looking. Apparently, people are still looking at funerals. Funerals.

Because nothing says romance like watching a coffin lowered together. (Credit)

In October, my great uncle, a man very near and dear to my heart, passed away. At his burial, apparently, a woman distantly related to my family by marriage saw me and proceeded to track down my mother’s phone number a few months later. She apparently couldn’t sleep because she thought I’d be perfect for her son (from a previous marriage). Mind you, my eyes were bright red and puffy from crying, my hair was tangled, and it had been raining that day, so I looked like a muddy, drowned rat. Yes, this definitely is the image you want to have of a potential future daughter-in-law.

She wanted me to “get to know” her son, and my mother told me to meet with him for coffee, because outright rejection would reflect badly on me, my family, and my “future prospects” as a whole. After digging in my heels for a bit, I agreed, and he was given my phone number (I’m sure he was digging in his heels as well– he admitted to feeling as awkward as I did when he called).

We actually had a pretty nice first meeting– lunch and coffee. We chatted and such, but he lives at least an hour and a half, if not more, away. All fine and dandy.

Last weekend, I went to another event. There were quite a lot of guests, one of whom was his mother (let’s call her “Mrs. X”). My mother and I were eating beside one another, rather isolated from most other people, when Mrs. X decided to join us.

Immediately, my brain started freaking out. Oh God, oh God, oh God… Please, just don’t bring it up…

After some how’s-the-weather type of talk, she got right to the point, telling my mother, “Unfortunately, the matter I spoke to you about didn’t work out.” I’m pretty sure I choked on my rice and turned bright red and made incoherent babbling noises as I tried to figure out something to say. I ultimately just gave up and let my mom deflect for me. “My son hasn’t visited since that time, and he’s about to go to abroad for his program for a few months,” Mrs. X continued.

Mom managed the appropriate sentiments of regret about this utter travesty. Meanwhile, she was trying to eat and for some reason kept missing her mouth with the food. The awkward levels were that bad.

Hardcore fail deserves yet another Picard… but emphasized. This one was for me. (Credit)

Mrs. X continued this for a good ten or fifteen minutes, talking about how young people really had no desire nowadays to have their parents make arrangements for them, and that they find one another online, etc., and suggested that I keep in touch with him via email.

Thank goodness for my cousin arriving to save me– I’m sure she noticed I was a tomato from across the room. “HELP,” I mouthed to her. “Yeah,” she murmured so Mrs. X couldn’t hear. “I thought this was weird.” Fortunately, she changed the subject, though she kept on glancing at Mrs. X and chuckling at me all the while.

Here’s the thing: I don’t have any problems with Mrs. X, who is a lovely person, I’m sure.

But seriously, a blind date is completely awkward enough. Having your parents set up a blind date and force you to go through with it is even worse. Having his mother and your mother discuss the logistics of said blind date well after the fact (and in front of you) is just cruel and unusual punishment. I’m still feeling the waves of discomfort.

Anyway, I’ve rambled enough. I’m over 2k words, so I’m going to abruptly end this. I’ll save up my treasure trove of uncomfortable dating misadventures for other posts.

End.