The Date From Mars.

That particular night I was having trouble focusing. I really was. I didn’t know why I was having such a tough time concentrating. The scene that was unfolding in front of me was highly entertaining and logic would dictate that for that reason alone, I would feel compelled to ‘plug in.’ Nope. My mind was taking a nice stroll outside of the conversation I was embroiled in. Why? Because I was at a loss as to how the fuck I got there and I was struggling to decide how I was going to escape.  Let’s back up for a moment…

I distinctly remember texting with _______ on the train ride home from ______’s birthday party. At that point, we had been chatting for a few weeks. When he suggested meeting up for a drink given the hour (8 PM on a Saturday night), I distinctly recall pausing to contemplate, glancing at my reflection in the train windows. I took a quick appraisal. Skinny jeans, cropped white sweater, my prized Marc Jacobs combat boots, jewels and eyeliner on point. Not too shabby. Our conversations had been on the shorter side but fairly entertaining. I could get home, jump in my car, and still have time to enjoy some of my Saturday evening.

_______ is in his mid to late 40s, good looking, owns a successful PR business, and has a pretty solid sense of humor as evidenced through our text messages. Given our respective work and personal calendars, it had been a real challenge to find a few minutes to meet face to face. With an opportunity sitting in front of us, it seemed foolish at the time to not carpe that diem. So, I said yes. Why not, right?

He threw out a restaurant/bar in the middle and I quickly responded that I imagined it would be packed at 9 PM on a Saturday evening. But, he insisted. It wasn’t that big of a deal to me so I agreed that we could give it a go. He arrived before me and almost immediately texted telling me that it was insanely busy and he didn’t think there was a good place for us to sit. First of all, correct, sir. That is why I said we should go elsewhere. Secondly, do you have NO concern for my well-being? I do NOT text and drive. Pick up the goddamn phone. Small shiver of irritation experienced. But honestly, not even a blip on the radar. Certainly not in retrospect.

I call him to discuss our predicament and he picks another locale for our meeting. I know I am going to sound a little crazy here but I can’t help but feel a little anxious about it. It is a full on restaurant. Not a restaurant with a cool bar. Just your standard Mexican restaurant. Again, not that big of a deal but seems to up the ante a bit. Maybe not. Perhaps my adventures in dating had just left me a little tainted and I was being dramatic. The last thing I wanted was to turn into that woman. Picking on every little thing and failing to see the diamond in the rough.

We arrive at the new spot, grab a table, and everything sort of went downhill from there, which was arguably also the beginning of my trip to la la land.

______ was polite enough, allowing me to choose the table and then asking what I wanted to drink. Now that I think about it, it’s hard for me to pinpoint the exact moment when he started…oversharing? I’m not even sure how to categorize it. I think oversharing is probably the nicest descriptor I can come up with right now.

What I find most insane is that as I listen to him “open up” and tell me ALL OF IT, I hear the voices of my friends and family telling me not to be hard on him. I’ve tried to explain that there is a vast divide between a large fingernail bed and a gentleman who uses the c word 35 times on a first date to describe his female co-workers to no avail. I seem to have hit an age where the primary criteria for a perfect match for moi is available. And by available, I am also referring to those who are intending to be available but aren’t quite there yet (no, the thought to divorce does not qualify as a divorce). What I truly can’t fathom is why age and basic standards are meant to be an inverse correlation.  Shouldn’t my standards be much like a fine wine? Refined and better with age? Apparently not. Rumor has it I’m supposed to check for a pulse, hope for working man parts, and move forward like my life counts on it.

Only I can’t seem to do that. Not generally and definitely not here. I just can’t. I do have standards. They have been carefully molded and crafted after years of bad decisions, worse relationships, and lots of emotional strife. I truly don’t much care if someone has a robust head of hair. I do care if they are a kind person. I care if they are nice to wait staff and have a few friends. I don’t care what car someone drives or how much money they have in their bank account but I do want someone who can stand on their own two feet and take care of themselves. I also need someone who understands my work ethic and ambition. You get the point.

Apparently at the ripe ol’ age of 39, I am not supposed to care about any of this. I supposed to make exceptions, not take exception. I am supposed to be understanding, not try to understand. I am supposed to bow down, not bow out. Who the fuck decided this craziness? Anyway, I digress. Let’s discuss what got my brain here to begin with…what started this perilous journey into the rules of dating in your mid to late 30s.

Where to begin?

Aliens. Shall we begin with aliens? ______ was abducted. Twice. He was targeted by alien life, first in third grade and then again in his 20s. I credit myself with a steel resolve and an empathetic soul, which is why I was able to prevent my face from reflecting my abject horror. And by horror I mean what in the ACTUAL FUCK? Let’s just say that the alien abductions were the worst of it. Could I look past it? I dunno and I don’t even have to take that exercise very far because it wasn’t the worst of it. Alien abduction was the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Our conversation, or more accurately his diatribe, touched on ALL of the following topics: serious drug addiction, physical abuse, theft by an ex-wife, religious saving (including seat levitation in case you thought I was being a judge-y bitch), untreated ADD, and…drum roll…a parent taking medication for erectile dysfunction. If you think I am exaggerating, I can assure you, I am not. I am not that creative. I’m not. Even if I tried to come up with a wild date story, this would not be it.

The truth is that I’ve had some loony dates. I have. Some fast talkers, dick pic takers, liars, crude ass humans. This, my friends, took the cake. It did. It was too much. A mountain of crazy that I didn’t know how to climb. But instead of fully absorbing what was going on, I was trying, in vain, to figure out exactly how I arrived at that moment. How the FUCK did I not see the crazy during our conversations? Was he that clever in his ability to hide the nuttiness? Did I overlook signs because I was trying to subscribe to that damn inverted chart? What happened? Was he doing this to test me? Was the universe playing a joke on me? Was I on some reality show that I didn’t remember signing up for?

Here is a better question: why was I still sitting there, across from crazy? Is it because some part of me felt harsh for feeling the way that I did? Intolerant, impatient, and high maintenance? I’m not…any of those things. I have my own baggage and issues to contend with, but I can promise you that those qualities are not my jam. I am open-minded and accepting. I am patient and loving and compassionate. I give people a wide berth. But how wide should that berth be exactly? Wide enough to fit an entire ship of aliens?

What if we all got together (I would say women in their 30s/40s but I know full well that there are men that contend with the same shit) and decided that there must be a new paradigm. What if we don’t allow people to unload all their shit and call it ‘being an open book.’ That is not the truest spirit of honesty, it’s a scam. It’s a dumping. It sucks. There, I said it. It really sucks. Why aren’t we allowed to decide that someone needs to get a lil therapy before they go out into the world and subject an innocent dating population to their breed of crazy?

It is okay to have “stuff”…it really is on every single level. I don’t mind when someone has quirky habits or an ex-wife and kids. I don’t. I do mind when I am being asked to swallow a mouthful of insanity.

My date with ______ was crazy but it was also bullshit. It was a waste of time. It was unfair. I don’t want someone to tell me that there is someone out there for him because you know what, there shouldn’t be. Not how he is today. There IS someone who believes in alien abductions. That I recognize and even though I am not that person, I am cool with that. There should not be a woman that is willing to be assaulted by ALL of his ‘truths’ on a goddamn first date.

When I told ______ that he was nice but we had different lifestyles (to say the least), he voiced that he guessed he was just too open for me. Fuck that. Really. I am not going to apologize here. I am not a bitch. I am not cruel and I am not overly critical. I felt exhausted when I left our date. I felt like I was carrying all of his crazy on my shoulders and had to decide if I was strong enough to tell him that it was a bit much for me. Why is that on me?

Listen, you have to have a sense of humor in this crazy game we call dating today. You really do. Some of your dates will be from Mars (literally) and you are going to have to contend with that fact. However, doesn’t it stand to reason that you have the right to decide that you feel more comfortable with someone from Earth? Doesn’t it make sense to demand that you can make that decision without being labeled picky or without hearing that you will never find someone with ‘that attitude?’

It is a scary world out there, but I’m telling you that when you have standards, it is a little less scary. Get a tribe. Find support. Hold fast. Avoid Mars at all costs.

Until the next…

L.