Recently, I’ve decided to date again after a long barren stretch. Basically this undertaking means I have a profile on Match.com and succinctly put I hate it- the process that is, not the hoped for result. I have never been very good at dating or very interested at times- either I’m too passive or too interested. There is never a happy medium nor really a feeling of control over what is actually going on between myself and another man. The whole thing becomes for me tedious and disappointing; but there is something in culture that whispers to me and everyone- if you are not connected to someone you are less than something. I don’t necessarily believe it, but I can still hear those words murmuring away in the dark and at times it troubles me.
When I look around my apartment I often wonder how do I integrate someone into this submarine laden with silver, 19th century transferware pottery and books. My own Nautilus is very peculiar to me and it is constructed to my specific tastes like Huysmans in seclusion. Perhaps this concern is a mental barrier of my own creation. I want to be in a relationship, but don’t want it to interfere with the careful positioning of my stuff or more importantly my precious time alone beneath the waves.
I fantasize about meeting a man who travels for work like a flight attendant or a consultant. He is interested in a supportive, loving and committed relationship, but his time is limited. We would see each other but only in measured doses. Of course this is a possibility, but it is also a folly like a make believe ruin in 19th century England.
When I used to be more social in my younger days, I had the extreme ability to meet guys who were just visiting the city. Now was this anther psychological manifestation on my part (I don’t really want to meet anyone close) or was it just dumb bad luck?
So, while I have had several responses to my Match profile, no one of interest has yet emerged and I have not had the pleasure of going on a first date. The last first date I went on about 2 years ago (Gasp!) was simply wrong. Electronically, everything seemed encouraging. But in reality, this guy talked incessantly about his ex and especially how they owned a house upstate where for some reason they raised rabbits.
Honestly, I find the Easter Bunny a little creepy and actual rabbits unsettle me. I mean what do they actually do? What is their purpose sitting there silently wriggling their noses, looking at you and dreaming of fornication? Plus, when I think of rabbits I am always haunted by the book Watership Down. Apparently rabbits are not just fuzzy balls of cuteness, but are pretty nasty motherfuckers as well.
So back to my date with Rabbit Boy. He lived outside the city and had one remaining rabbit from the apparent hoard he and his former partner had reared. I even got to see a picture of this creature- a floppy eared fat monster. Again for some reason, he shared that the rabbit whose name escapes me didn’t live in a cage, but just hopped around the apartment, just shitting wherever it wanted…
And there I sat passively smiling nodding and looking for the exits. Needless to say, I did not see Rabbit Boy again, but during our date I sat there for far too long searching among the rabbit ruins for something to hold onto, something to like, something to fascinate me about him, but the only thing in my mind was the haunting image of him surrounded by rabbits hopping around in their own excrement.
While this encounter now makes me laugh, at the time it was just disappointing. My psychologist says that dating is a numbers game which on one hand is correct and comforting, but on the other hand how high will the number have to be? When are the odds too high? When do I just close the hatch of the Nautilus and head to an unknown depth? Well, at least the periscope still works…