It’s been a long time since this many (mis)adventures happened in one day. I guess it was really only two, but yesterday felt 3-5 Sundays long.
I should probably be a better friend to myself. When recently-divorced
Sunday Morning First Date started Bumble-texting me a couple of weeks ago, he
mentioned being leery of my bi-ness because his wife had slept with his sister.
(And like eight other people. Not, I don’t think, in an ENM kinda way.) (My only
regret about this particular morning is that I didn’t get more details about
that (sounds made-up) story.) If a friend had fielded such a conversation, I
would have been livid, like WTF kind of bi-phobic bullshit is this?
Instead, I let tenderness and compassion take the
wheel. I reassured him, giving a vague outline of my still-beginning dating
life. Before a first date! This seems excessive in hindsight. I don’t even know
anymore.
We met up at a local nature preserve on just the most
beautifully paradigmatic fall morning you can imagine. I even packed us a
picnic for after our mini-hike. I’d chosen him because he was sweet and artsy
by text. I watched him take a beautiful photo of the trees’ reflection on the
water. He had a lovely Georgia accent and a cute Ron-Funches-but-grumpy vibe. I
liked the way he pronounced the Great Blue Heron’s name as we passed one from
not too far away: herr-RON. I love it.
It was chilly so I was quick to slip my hand into his
pocket with his. We didn’t get to hold hands for very long.
“There’s just too much feminism these days. Nobody can
say ANYTHING.”
I pushed back in a measured way, but things only got
worse. When I called BFF later (like five minutes later) she explained that a
lot of what SMFD had to say came right out of Dave Chappelle’s latest standup
special, which has apparently been making her Twitter feeds miserable lately.
She recommended this article and I read it later in the car with lunch: https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/13/opinion/dave-chappelle-netflix-trans.html
Anyway, back to the end of this short nightmare: SMFD
and I were standing on a boardwalk platform in the middle of the wetland, next
to a placard about an invasive species of turtles. He (the date, not the turtle)
launched into an impassioned talk against “too much division,” saying the left
and the right were equally to blame, equally hateful. (It’s this kind of false
equivalency nonsense that makes me swipe left on every singly guy who
identifies as “moderate,” in his profile even though many (WRONG) lefties would
accuse me of the same.)
“Okay, we’re done.” I pointed to the other side of the
bridge. “You go this way and I’ll go that way.”
As wrong as he was, I sort of understand the impulse
he might’ve had. I know I’ve thrown my own conversational firebombs when I
haven’t been ready or a match for someone. But it’s really not the same—never have
I ever resorted to semi-quoting a famous transphobe/homophobe/misogynist as a Get
Out of Date Free card. I guess Chappelle goes in the folder with the Bern and
all of the other snuggle-wreckers.
It felt weirdly like a relief to be so clearly not a
match, after a month or so of grey-areas, which aren’t my specialty. BFF was
happy to join me on the rest of the hike by phone, debating with me about the
categories of clouds in the pictures I sent. Lots and lots of pictures of water
and leaves and clouds. I ate my half of the lovely picnic lunch in the car with
the window open, catching up on Dear Prudence and How to Do It. I think this
counts as reading outside, one of my most important (And most neglected!) fall
goals checkmarks.
I was proud, slightly relieved, and ready for a nap. When
I got home, there was an over-succinct “Hey” in my texts from Hookup Guy, who
is so fucking beautiful I can’t even deal. I’ll tell you that part tomorrow.
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