Dana Norris is the founder of Story Club. She once went on 71 Internet dates. This was one of them.
Patrick and I have gone on two dates and one late night train ride full of Libertarian tirades and I am digging this guy. We’ve spent upwards of 20 hours on the phone together, he’s commented on every single picture of me on Facebook, and I’m convinced that finally, finally, here is my next boyfriend.
I’ve been single and dating for nine months and I’ve hated pretty much all of it. My problem is that I’m not built for dating. I’m not able to coquettishly twist my hair around my finger while a strange man I just met via the Internet orders us mozzarella sticks. I’m not able to pretend that Internet dating is normal. Instead, I pick at my hangnails while asking him, “Do you like your mother?”
But Patrick finally, finally seems to have some actual boyfriend potential. He’s an ex-Marine personal trainer with the voice of a radio god, a beard that gleams in the sunlight, a great sense of humor, and the desire to train me to run a marathon. He’s also 10 years older than me, still has a roommate, and doesn’t own a couch but still: I am in.
The day after our second date I find myself at a mutual friend’s birthday party and Patrick is there too and I’m ecstatic—we’re seeing each other every day! This is how love happens! Our mutual friend is happy birthday wasted, we’re all posing for pictures with a garden gnome, maybe this is my third date with Patrick, and isn’t it great how things just work out? As the night goes on I notice that Patrick doesn’t seem nearly as happy as I am about this coincidence. He’s leaning back in his chair, angled away from the group, barely talking to anyone. He seems—tired? It would make sense since we both slept in his microscopic and overheated twin bed last night and probably got a total of four hours of sleep. I’m successfully continuing my campaign to not sleep with him yet, which he seems to find less adorable every day. Still, I’m figuring that he’ll invite me back to his place at the end of the night and I’ll throw him an orgasm to help turn his frown upside down.
After the party’s over, we walk down the street toward his apartment and my car. His suburb has Byzantine parking rules, which require overnight guests to display a parking permit after 2am or else risk being ticketed. As we approach my car Patrick announces, “Hey, it’s not 2am yet so you don’t need an overnight parking permit!” Subtext: “Hey, don’t come into my home because I am tired of seeing you!” He hugs me goodbye and as I climb into my car my ego deflates. Not even a kiss goodbye? Oh, hell. This man pursued me like a rabid dog for weeks. He told me that I was pretty and smart and adorable. He called me every day, hollered at me via every social media platform available to him, came to the storytelling show I produce, showed all signs of being very interested in everything that is Dana Norris. And I believed him. He made me feel wonderful. But I guess he’s no longer interested.
Days go by and I don’t hear from him. Last time a guy approached boyfriend status I slept with him and he lost interest, so this time I deliberately didn’t sleep with Patrick and he still lost interest. Why is this so hard? What does a girl gotta do to get herself a boyfriend? Maybe I was too obvious with my affections. I overwhelmed him. I didn’t convert to Libertarianism. I didn’t handle his penis enough.
What makes my shame even more acute is that I’ve agreed to go to a party at his apartment next weekend. It’s thrown by his roommate and has a ’90s theme. And I love themed parties so much, I’ve been planning my outfit for weeks, but I feel like I shouldn’t go. I should stay home with my self-pity and my TiVO’d episodes of Gilmore Girls. I call a friend for a consult and explain the situation. She responds, “You are goddamn going to that party. First, make sure you look like hot sex. Then, at the party, show him that you are having an amazing time, dancing, laughing, flirting with other guys. He’s going to be expecting you to be sad or to ask him why he hasn’t called you. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You don’t talk to him. You are hot and you have all the fun and you don’t even look at him. That’s how you play this.” This is clearly my most manipulative friend and I feel like she is giving me some amazing advice.
Party time: I am wearing a pink and brown plaid skirt with a velour bodysuit and knee-high Rocket Dog boots I purchased in the actual ’90s. I just stepped out of Sassy magazine and I am going to win the night. I am drinking and dancing with a group of dudes I don’t even know and Patrick is there, sitting in a chair with a girl on his lap. But that’s fine. I am OK with that because I don’t care anymore. I am serving Clueless-style realness on the dance floor and I am Teflon. Nothing can touch me.
When it’s time to leave, I realize that I’ve left my purse underneath a chair Patrick is sitting on. No! My carefully laid highly manipulative plan! I send a friend of mine over to retrieve my purse. She does and Patrick, recognizing the purse as mine, asks her, “Is Dana leaving? I should go say hi.” My friend, who is aware of my carefully laid highly manipulative plan, runs back to me, yelling, “You have to leave now!” I grab my purse and rush out the door.
The next day I get a message from Patrick on my Facebook wall, “Sorry we didn’t a chance to talk during the party. Hope you had a good time.” Wow. That manipulative bullshit totally worked. Now what? Try to resume dating him? Absolutely not. At the very least, this man runs hot/cold and I don’t like not knowing where I stand. But the deeper truth is that my desire to make Patrick my boyfriend had very little to do with Patrick and more to do with the fact that, even though it’s been nine months since I ended a long-term relationship, I am not yet reconciled to being single. I hate being single.
I crave connection, I am built for monogamy, and thus I try to make every guy I date into my boyfriend. Because I understand boyfriends, I understand how to behave in a relationship, I’m good at that. I am not good at this dark bullshit dating wasteland where nothing makes sense and I can’t tell if anyone actually likes me or if I actually like them or if we’re all just lonely and horny and bored. How does anyone ever find their person? I keep trying and I’m failing. I have no idea what to try next.
I decide that it’s time for me to take another break from dating. I decide that I need to get better at being single. I decide that the next time I fall for a guy I will first make sure that he owns a couch.
Dana Norris is the founder and host of Story Club, a monthly show for stories in Chicago. She has been published in Tampa Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and The Rumpus. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Northwestern University. She performs around Chicago you may find a list of upcoming shows at www.dananorris.net.
Related Links: