“Help me!” she said. “Tell me what it means. He said, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you.’ He always stood or sat next to me. We’d break off on our own to talk, even when we were part of a group….does this mean he’s interested? Evenly vaguely?”
“Well,” I said, “It’s hard to tell.”
“Yeah,” she said. “We’ve only really talked twice. And he has my phone number, but hasn’t called.”
“That’s not a great sign.” I said.
“I mean, he’s only had it for like, three days, that’s not too long.”
“Has he texted you?” I asked, since texting is the “let’s do lunch” of the technological dating scene, not as formal as a phone call, not as breezy as a IM.
“No,” she said, sighing.
“Hmm,” I said, pondering her predicament, “Well, see how it goes this weekend when you see him. Don’t get all hyped up about it. If it happens, cool; if not, no big deal.”
“Yea,” she said, “But it’s been soo long since I even had a crush on anyone, I don’t remember how this all works. I’m never myself around the guys I’m interested in. I mean, I’m myself, of course, but I play up different parts of me that I know the guy will like. If he’s into the outdoors, I become SuperNatureGirl. If he scoffs at religion, I don’t mention mine. If he likes a band I’ve heard the name of, I’ll say I like them too. I try to get them to like me and I end up losing myself.”
As I ended the above conversation with a beautiful woman whom I love more than life itself, I wondered how often I’d transformed myself for another person. Aren’t we all guilty of lying by omission (or lying outright) during the wooing stages? I remember becoming interested in soccer, photography, hunting, and Hunter S. Thompson novels in efforts to look more appealing to the man I was currently crushing on. None of which I ever really had much interest in (besides photography), and some that I flat out distained (soccer/Thompson). But I feigned interest with a smile on my face because I’d hope it’d help me score another date. In addition to faking my way through novels and sporting events in an attempt to “snag a man”* I’ve kept pieces of myself out of view in attempts to do the same. I’ve hidden some of my “uncool” and in some cases “unladylike”** aspects of my personality; like say my love of the movie Grease, my embarrassing enjoyment of Lady O-to-the-Prah that often makes me feel like I’m a suburban soccer mom, my ability to polish off an entire half-gallon of ice cream in a sitting, or the fact that I sometimes forego a shower in order to sleep a little longer.
We keep the flaws to ourselves until we think we’ve got the object of our affection in our grasp, then we leak them out slowly as to not frighten them off. Like say, flipping the channel from a hockey game to a Dr. Phil rerun at 11:30pm, or insisting we listen to the entirety of Madonna’s “Holiday” when it comes on the radio. We ease our significant others into our crazy, hoping that in small doses they’ll develop a resistance similar to anti-venom and will stick by us, enamored by our “uniqueness”.
Why do we hold ourselves back when ourselves, our true reality-tv loving, country-music-fan selves are who we want to be loved for being?
I went a different route with the guy I’m currently seeing. I laid all my shit out on the table right away. Everything that I’ve ever been embarrassed to admit, I fessed up. My out-of-the-box views on medical research, my politics, my feminist ideals, my past, my present, my future. My love of Anne of Green Gables, and mashed potatoes with bar-b-que sauce. Evvverryything.
And he didn’t run away.
He ran to me.
400 miles, 7.5 hours in car one way, he ran to me.
I guess there is something to say for that whole “honesty” thing.
*this is all snark, just in case someone thinks my feminist card should be revoked due to vapid dating self-help book vernacular usage.
**ditto.
