Dating : To the Men Who’ve Made Me a Better Liar

I was sitting at a McDonald’s corner booth, vacillating between writing and editing early on a Saturday while my daughter was at home enjoying a little weekend-morn chill time. I was decked out in my (hole-y) blue jean shorts, sports bra/tank combo, the old flip-flops I wouldn’t dare stick my nose within a one-foot range of, and the $1 Walmart bandana that precludes me having to do anything with my hair except, you know, shove it under a bandana. Not exactly my come-hither-and-get-a-slice-of-this look.

When along came a man. Hearty. Salt of the earth. Decade or so my senior. Asking if he could set his drink cup on my table while he stepped in the men’s. Why not? He even made me promise not to spike his soda while he was away. So far, all in good fun.

When he rejoined our bustling McDonald’s main room, he thanked me, I said sure, he shook my hand and introduced himself, and then it started.

“You from around here?”

I sighed inwardly, steeling myself up to answer in a way that clearly indicated I had nothing against him but also didn’t care to divulge a history. Admittedly, I felt a little sensitive to this sort of thing because only recently a fellow had yelled personal questions at me in a dark empty parking lot when I was out for a walk, and I hadn’t forcefully disengaged the way I believed I should have, and it had ignited feelings of vulnerability and self-loathing, and I was just sorta, ya know, done.

But it’s hard to take umbrage at a superficially nonsexual question, isn’t it? What do you say — “I can sense where you’re going with this, and it would save both of us some frustration and three to five minutes if we could just stop here”?

I told him I was from here.

“Okay, okay. Me? I just got here for work, so I’m trying to get a feel for the area still.”

“It’s a nice area.” (Lie #1, of — you will see — several. During my parking-lot encounter, I had been truthful in yelling back answers to the volley of personal Qs, and it had only elongated the interrogation.)

“So, do you have a husband or boyfriend?”

“Yes.” (#2)

“Which?”

“Boyfriend.” (#2 1/2. This lie is partially encompassed by the last lie. If I had to justify the choice of it over the other, I could argue that it was the easier one to defend. After all, I don’t wear a ring. In truth, I think I chose it because it felt like the lesser of two lies.)

“Ahh, not husband. So, there’s still a chance.”

Like to pause for a sec here. To acknowledge that a guy saying something like that doesn’t, in isolation, piss me off. Quite often — depending on the context — I think it’s funny. Or at least understandable. Sometimes after a swing and a miss, you back your way out with some tame comedy.

Several years ago, when I was dating only women and estimated myself to be all-the-way gay (instead of ~2/5 gay, as I seem to have settled on), I was at a bar with a few friends when a fella asked for my number. When I told him I was gay, he broke into a waterpik-model smile and said, “Thank you for telling me, but I don’t mind.”

Why was this welcome? Context, dude. We were both in a widely acknowledged setting for humans mooning over other humans, his had been a reasonable enough assumption about me, we were both willing to laugh it off. He used humor as a graceful exit point, and then he backed off. Hell, I liked the guy so much I gave him my friend Marsha’s number. She didn’t appreciate it, and neither did her husband, but what can I say? Funny guys deserve blondes. (JK — she was super divorced by then. Her husband had long since had enough of me trying to set her up with whatever dance hall himbos made me laugh.)

In short — I’m not one to get riled up over a goofy flirtation exit strategy. I figure most of us will end up needing one at some point. What bothered me this time was that it wasn’t an exit.

“You got kids?” the guy asked me, in what should have been the aftermath of a forgettable exchange.

By now, I was rounding the corner from “that’s enough” to “that’s e-fucking-nough.” But what did I say? The truth, baby, one last time. “Yes.”

“With the boyfriend?”

The only reaction that would have honestly reflected my inner state would’ve been, “What business of yours could it possibly be, oh McDonald’s Stranger?”

“Yes.” (#3)

“See, why don’t you just get married?” he said, smiling but not laughing. “That way you can say you’re married and that would be the end of it.”

Have I established that I can take a joke? Hell, I frequently laugh at things I’m sure are objectively unfunny. Kids screaming bloody murder at their parents in Target because the requested cheesy poofs and Barbies are not forthcoming. My phone getting run over yet again. Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

But if this was a joke, he was badly fumbling the punchline. And it left me feeling like my blood had been microwaved. Partly because the guy still wasn’t edging away from my table, even though about midway through the conversation I’d deduced that subtlety may be lost on him and had taken to staring at my computer screen as I gave what I knew had to sound like inhospitable answers.

So, I looked at him. “We’re fine.” Suddenly indignant on behalf of both my imaginary boyfriend (that would be one of the Gretas Van Fleet) and myself. How dare this jerk tell Josh or Jake or Sam or Daniel and I how to manage our love. But seriously. Now I was pissed. And looked back pointedly at the computer screen serving as my ineffectual barrier between me and who I’m now going to refer to, since he pissed me off, as Bathroom Guy.

Just as I was wondering if I would have to leave and find another place to work, Bathroom Guy ambled toward the doorway. Smiling broadly. Satisfied, apparently, with how this chat had panned out.

And here’s the rub.

The part that annoys me into writing about an exchange that would otherwise melt into the humdrummery of an aggressively hot and therefore normal August weekend.

He sort of had a point. If I’d just said I was married, maybe that would have sooner been the end of it. If I hadn’t chosen the “lesser of two lies” but lied bold and bright, maybe that would have been enough to get the dude to curtail an unwelcome pursuit a little faster. Maybe my unavailability would have been clearer if I’d said, “I’m married to the eternal light and love of my soul, and we, together, are married to God, and God, my husband, and I are group-married to a heavenly unicorn that will — with its magical but hella pointy horn—impale anyone who entertains unfaithful thoughts.”

. . . Or maybe my first clear sign of disinterest, especially within a context not historically conducive to romance, should have been enough.

I don’t mind saying no. I did when I was younger, but these days I feel less . . . heart-attacky ?. . . when I know it’s time to be blunt. But having to do it more than once, via multiple turns of phrase, when I’m triple-positive my body language is not writing some ulterior narrative that’s confusing my poor midmorning Mickey D’s suitor, is discouraging. Having accepted that lying hard is the surest way out of being wooed on non-shower/rank-flip-flops/bandana-hair days is a suck-ass feeling. One I do not want my daughter inheriting.

And, hey, I have my moments on the opposite end of the seeker/seekee spectrum. Only the other day — here, in my unassuming office away from home office — I walked past a guy who was just double-take, drippin’ gorge. Well, to a gal in her thirties who’s going through a phase (a phase coming up on its twenty-year anniversary, but oh well). The long dark greasy hair, the Blackhearts T-shirt, the authority-bucking bad-boy joie de vivre as demonstrated by the fact that he wasn’t even using a lid and straw, just drinking straight from the plastic cup rim. Like a goddamn beast.

Did I enjoy looking? I did. Would I have ever sidled up to his booth to ask if he had a girlfriend? No, but that’s more about my being both romantically lazy and a big fluffy chicken than it being inherently wrong. But if I flex my imagination, I can visualize doing such a thing.

What I can’t visualize, in a zillion skrillion years, is hearing, “Yes, I have a girlfriend,” and pressing the issue.

The outermost interaction most men initiate with me when I’m workin’ away courtesy of McDonald’s wifi is the old nod/half-smile maneuver. Most have proven perfectly willing to leave me — the fuck, may I add — alone. Most, moreover, can probably smell my flip-flops from four booths down and are deeply uninterested.

I do appreciate the dudes who take hints and respect boundaries and consider pushiness unmasculine and for whom a no is a no is a no.

So, this isn’t aimed at a group broadly. It is — specifically if pointlessly — dedicated to those men of late who’ve encouraged me to be a better (or worse) liar: please, please, please, be better.

If you can acknowledge aloud that a woman should say she’s married — or be married — in order to dissuade your otherwise inexorable pursuit of her, you must realize you’re treating her as something less than human. You know it shouldn’t matter if we’re coupled, throupled, married with a dozen kids and as many pets, or single and just not feeling it.

When everything about someone’s demeanor and direct words says no, accept it and get the hell outta there. It’s the dignified thing to do. For what it matters, it will definitely leave a better impression than putting someone who’s attempting to remain polite on the defensive, making them feel trapped. And that is the truth.