The Flâneur's Turtle

By Tricia Lunt, English Faculty.

Allow me to update Tolstoy’s famous line “happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” and apply it to dating; “all good dates are alike; every bad date is dreadful in its own way.” Since the only good thing to come from a bad date is a fantastic anecdote, I offer some recent treasures from my dating misadventures.

Online dating can feel like the last refuge of the desperate. Like most people, I started online dating reluctantly, after intervention-style demands from friends who disliked the last man I was seeing and want me to find love, the right man, a date. Something. There are two other key factors that propelled my entry into the truly terrifying terrain of online dating. One of my closest friends found her remarkably winning fiancé online. It can happen. And even though I am quite content in my singledom, every now and then I think it might be nice to make two lunches in the morning instead of just one.

I completed a 6-month circuit of online dating. The end result has been that I have arrived at a new low point of interest in men. It seems as though my attraction to men is inversely proportional to getting to know them. This does not characterize my attitude toward all men, just the ones I’ve meet recently. Alas, the well of my romantic optimism has run dry.

I offer a description of two of the men I’ve been forced to consider as potential romantic partners. Names have been changed to avoid embarrassment; each man has been re-christened based on his most strikingly awful personality quirk. I’ll spare you the suspense and assure you there is no “happily ever after,” but there can always be laughter.

The first man I met for a drink had given himself a Master’s degree. I didn’t bother to explain to him that “extensive reading” was not an acceptable academic credential from an accredited institution of higher learning. Don’t get me wrong, a man who reads is the only viable choice for me. However, people are not able to confer diplomas upon themselves, a fact “Make-your-own Master’s Man” was apparently ignorant of. He knew plenty about what he wanted to know, primarily British history. He seemed generally distressed by my knowledge of British history and did his best to discover the century I knew least about (17^th) and focused his conversational attention there, if only to be sure I couldn’t challenge him. When he finished his pink martini (alas, not a new kind of whiskey), I ended the date with relief that at least his neighborhood was interesting.

Next in line was a man who sent me a pre-date text to help me identify him in the crowd at a downtown bar. He sent, “I’m at a table to the left, and I am wearing a gray hoodie.” Had I spared a minute to analyze that statement more closely, my expectations for the date would have been recalibrated. Yes, the man elected to wear a gray hoodie to our first date. I suppose I should be thankful that he didn’t have on a backward baseball cap. I do tend to like younger men, but he wasn’t young; he was just odd. “Hoodie Man” exhibited a few more questionable habits, the most troubling being his desire to ask, “what happened, did he spit on you?” Twice. I won’t bother to contextualize that seriously bizarre statement. It seemed to simply be a “go to” phrase that he liked to inexplicably inject into conversation.

 There were other contenders, but I can skip to the end without much regret because I honestly recoil from memories of certain conversations and exchanges with the handful of other men I’ve encountered. After some reflection (and perhaps too much information shared), my colleague has placed me on “Injured Reserve” for the rest of the dating season. I might be healthy enough to date in the Spring. It’s too early to tell. Currently, I am just hopeful that I will recover more quickly than Derrick Rose.

PS I am allergic to cats.