Guys No Self-Respecting Girl Would Date (Again)

We’ve all done it. We’ve all done it because he makes us laugh. Because he’s a good guitar player. Ok, usually, because he’s really, seriously cute. We’ve all dated someone far longer than is good for our own self-respect.

With some, I’ve pretended not to care – “I realize the fact that he’s a macrobiotic quasi-vegan makes it difficult to have us over for dinner, but I think we should all acknowledge the gravity of his commitment to that lifestyle choice.”

With others, it’s been a deeper, more prolonged state of denial: “Yes, he does have that interesting theory about puppies hatching from eggs, but how could someone with his social skills not be intelligent on some level? The IQ is there, I just know it.”

I like to think of these encounters as amusing transgressions of my past and so, with the wisdom I’ve gained from arguably too much dating over the years, I’d like to share some of my experiences so that others may learn from them. Well, laugh at them, anyway.

Mr. Thankful

Mr. Thankful was cute. Too cute. He had big dreamy eyes and a dopey grin that made me hate myself every time that little voice piped up inside me, reminding me that he and I were potentially the worst match in history.

“For god’s sake woman!” it would say. “You’re cooking quinoa while pretending to enjoy the ‘world music’ mix he just put on. Get a grip – you’re killing us here!”

I quieted that voice for many months. But one day, it just came out.

It was Thanksgiving. We were two wanderers far from home, both Americans living in London, and went out for lunch. In a fit of what I at the time thought was winsome spontaneity, but have since recognized as a desperate attempt to find something to talk about with this guy, I asked him the classic Thanksgiving question: What are you thankful for?

Now, I acknowledge that a corny question should expect a corny answer, but Mr. Thankful managed to top them all. He looked out the window, thoughtfully. He pondered, breathing deeply the steamy air of the crowded vegetarian café where we sat. The dreamy eyes turned to me, blinking, slowly, as he said: “I’m thankful for the sunshine today.”

That was the carrot stick that broke the free-range camel’s back. I told him my zucchini mushroom melt was off, ran to the nearest McDonald’s I could find and never answered his calls again.

Mr. Sarah Bernhardt

The details of my relationship with Mr. Sarah Bernhardt are unimportant. All I need to tell you is this: no self-respecting woman dates an actor. More than once.

Mr. Traffic Lights

With Mr. Traffic Lights, I can’t deny that there were warning signs. He had shelves full of books, none of which he had read (I started to suspect they’d come with the house). He insisted that the Republic of Ireland was “still owned” by England and that there were 52 states in the USA, two of which I, despite having been born there, did not know about because “America’s so big, you could easily miss them.”

But crunch time came when we had a me-storming-out-of-the-house scale argument. It wasn’t actually the argument that did it – no, it was the conversation we had when I called him that evening to make up.

I started to apologize, but he had already rehearsed and there was no going of script for this guy.

“Molly,” he sighed, “when I think about relationships, I think about traffic lights.”

“Um, go on?” said I.

“If they’re green,” he continued, “I know everything’s going to be alright. But with you” – and here his tone darkened – “I’m seeing a couple of yellows, maybe even a red.”

Stunned somewhere between shock and the overwhelming urge to laugh in his face, I managed to answer: “Did you just call me a traffic light?”

“Metaphorically…?” – he paused – “Yes.”

Reader, I hung up on him.

Mr. LOL

Mr. LOL’s  first text had three exclamation points too many (in other words, it contained three exclamation points). At the time I chalked this up to flatteringly childish enthusiasm on his part, however, and continued our association.

The next text concluded with a closing bracket preceded by a colon, indicating a “smiley face.” I inquired whether Mr. LOL was under the impression that I was unable to read. He said of course not, failing to explain this curious use of hieroglyphics as a means of communication.

A week later, there was that little face again, this time with a semi-colon for eyes that were rakishly “winking” at me. I shivered and promptly cancelled our date that night.

And then, it happened. Mr. LOL texted me a joke and finished it off with, you guessed it, “LOL!” I did not laugh internally, much less out loud. I took a calming, deep breath and texted: “I am never going to see you again. J!!!”

Jurassic Love

I understand that a reader of this piece might peg me as a bit of a perfectionist – a tad uptight or overly picky when it comes to men. Allow me to comfort you, dear reader, that the pickiness paid off and I’ve been in a steady relationship with a wonderful man for the past three years. He’s funny. He’s intelligent. He’s sweet and kind and tolerates my peculiarities – he even says he loves me for them.

And here’s the best part: his tolerance of my crazies has taught me to love his oddities in turn. Who knew that was how love works? Allow me to explain.

A few Saturdays ago, we were cleaning up after a dinner party. He was humming, continuously, over and over, the theme from Jurassic Park.

Attempting to drop a hint, I said: “Theme from Jurassic Park, huh?”

“Yep,” he smiled, drying a plate before continuing his song.

“You gonna keep humming that?”

“You betcha!” he said and started the tune over again, obviously missing the hint.

“Why?” I tried.

“Because it’s the song from one of the best films ever made.”

“Jurassic Park is not one of the best films ever made,” I laughed.

“Yes it is!” he said, getting a little too serious.

“Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it, it was fun, but it’s not a good film.”

His face went stony.

“Yes it is – I think it’s one of the best films ever made.”

I paused – crunch time.

“Well, I haven’t seen it since I was ten, so I probably didn’t really appreciate it then. Maybe we can watch it again some time?”

“I’d like that.”

And my wonderful, sweet man went back to his happy land of dinosaurs. Who am I to judge?

Molly Garboden is a reporter working the mean streets of London. When not listening to humming boyfriends, she enjoys making witty comments and acerbic asides. Contact her here.