Dating : The Commitment Crisis of 2019: Part I

This is part one of a two-part series where I outline the commitment issues we are facing in present-day dating. Part two will be released next week.

A few weeks before my 35th Birthday, I made a promise to myself. I would say yes to any guy that had the confidence to ask me on a date. Not just the ones who tickled my fancy via the digital airwaves. The witty ones. The guys who made me laugh through their data plans.

No, I told myself I’d say yes to all of them. Even if they asked me how my Tuesday was going in the second line of our direct messages (gawd, how I loathe this question).

Fun fact. I actually told one guy that I was drinking wine at my mom’s dining room table because my dog had spent the day in the emergency room and I’d started my period (two truths, one lie). He responded, “I only like to drink beer on Saturdays, but sounds like you earned it!”

I’m sorry, WUT?!

Needless to say, we did not go on a date. And, in my defense, he didn’t ask. We just died. Like 98.6% of all dating app discussions.

I had to have a few conversations with myself to get to this point of self-inflicted insanity. The first was a sympathetic nod to the fact that not everyone is a digital mastermind. The second was the cathartic realization that I can’t bitch about not finding a suitable suitor when I’m sitting on the couch eating cookie dough (if only). The third was a nod to whatever is happening here — in this blog — and the fact that I simply needed more data.

Because, The Commitment Crisis of 2019 is a thing, y’all. It is a very, very real thing. And I have the DMs and screenshots and memes to prove it.

Honestly, if I had a dollar for every girl (or guy) that I’ve heard mutter the infamous words “I give up” in reference to dating, I’d be able to pay for my gas to haul my Airstream in one full loop around the United States.

For reference, I get about 10 miles to the gallon when towing my 23’ trailer with my GMC Yukon Denali and a typical roundtrip US road trip hovers around 12,000 miles.

Point is, IT’S A LOT OF DOLLARS.

And my Instagram feed loves to remind me of The Commitment Crisis with quotes like, “Dating in 2019: Everyone’s dating, and everyone’s single.” Well, shit. Yep.

So, I volunteered myself as Tribute to the Hunger Games — not even a metaphor — and showed up screaming, “Let’s get ready to Bumble!”

Disclaimer. I saw that on a guy’s bio once, and I really just thought it was very clever.

Sorry, Matthew, it’s *mine* now.

His name probably wasn’t even Matthew, and we probably — and, by probably, I mean definitely — didn’t even get to the part where you exchange phone numbers.

That reminds me, I do have a story about a Matthew. One who did get my phone number. Well, I actually got his phone number first (because, savage). He told me I was his best opening line to date (please note that I no longer put any value on such a statement). Our banter didn’t last exceptionally long, and about two weeks later, I found myself scrolling through the shallow recesses of my Bumble DMs with the interest in doing a double take.

Dear Pop Culture, if “double take” is not the appropriate terminology for sliding into a guy’s DMs for a second time, I’d like to offer it up as a viable suggestion.

And double take I did.

Me: “In the spirit of being your best opener, should I also think of something brilliant to say to close us out in order to earn overall ‘best ever’ honors?”

Matthew: “Bah! I get the world’s best pen pal award. I haven’t been on here at all, and life got a little hectic. You’ve definitely just won ‘best ever’ in multiple categories at this point. Including best ‘where the fuck you at?” and ‘this is your last chance.’ PS, I just read The Man Blog: Part III.”

Oh gawd, I’ve been found in the wild.

It happens. A lot, as you can imagine. I actually wrote a blog about my underestimation of the fuckboy ego. How his pride actually begs to be inked to the Internet — no matter how negative it might be — which you can read here.

The kicker is that Matthew wasn’t scared of anything I had to say. He proceeded to agree with me. He applauded my honesty. He told me I was talented.

Me: “Be careful, stud, words are the key to my heart.”

Matthew: “Good.”

Only, no, not good. Not good. We talk for a week straight. Often. We spend every night messaging back and forth about funny things and serious things and normal things. I learn that he’s moving the following weekend and, then, then we can hang out.

Famous. Last. Words.

He messages me at the end of moving day one. Tells me all about how he’s been thinking of me. Even lets me in on his day’s drama of the bed frame being busted and the ceiling fan not working.

Like, we are in this, folks. As much as you can be in it with somebody who you are informing about your journey to Home Depot on a Saturday night.

The next day, I don’t hear from him. I send one message to express my condolences for the ceiling fan, and for five days, nothing. Well, for all the days still in this present moment, nothing.

And, no, I can’t make this shit up. Because, you heard the man. HE READ MY BLOG. He wouldn’t ghost when he knows my thoughts in regard to my respect for transparency. He wouldn’t disappear when he knows how much I value people talking truth, no matter how much the truth might hurt.

Right?!

I conclude that he must have lost service on an unexpected excursion to Alaska. That is the only logical explanation.

*opens old Bumble chat, clicks on profile, and scrolls down to GPS settings*

Location: Denver, 10 miles away.

Don’t *even* judge me right now. You know you all do it, too.

And, nope. Not adventuring. Not in Alaska. Just an asshole. Naturally, I decide I need the last word — like the last last word — after the word where I expressed my sorrow for his light fixture woes.

After those five days, I feverishly type out, “So we’re done here?”

It’s really the most perfect question. One where he never provided an answer. And no news was the best news. Because, bye. Because silence is closure.

Seriously, he was a Scorpio. I should have known better.

Speaking of the Zodiac, it’s the Geminis who throw me for the biggest loop. Because that is what Geminis do. Flirty. Funny. Flighty. They are charismatic and sassy and driven, but unchecked, they simply struggle to commit to anything.

Don’t believe me? Pinpoint the Gemini in your life — or yourself — and tell me that this analysis isn’t an accurate interpretation. I’ll wait.

The irony is that the chaos of the Gemini is grounded by the intensity of the Leo (ahem). And, I’m fully equipped to speak sarcasm.

Bring. It. On. Geminis.

And, bring it on, one Gemini did. Despite this man’s hectic travel plans (think, flying out of town every Tuesday through Thursday for work coupled with weddings and family summer lake extravaganzas), we managed to send witty one-liners at least once every three days (how I love digital banter).

He was busy. I was busy. Whatever the hell “busy” even means anymore. And I informed him that we’d probably need to keep up this effort in the event that Ellen finds out about our lackluster communication skills and decides to send us to Hawaii in three years. Or we mysteriously end up married and Elon Musk accepts us as the first two people to test out teleportation based on our running joke that my secret to seeing him in person relied solely on physics.

All that to say that it took us a month to actually get out of Bumble. Then another month to meet. Plus two weeks to hang out for a second time. Add a few days to get to sex (plus brunch). And then I basically became a semi-recipient of his SnapChats. As in, sending me pictures of his breakfasts inside airport terminals at his convenience.

Okay, frequent flyer, so you are thinking of me during the most mundane parts of your day, and you want me to know you’re thinking of me, but you have absolutely no intention of seeing me when we happen to exist five miles apart in the same city?

And we’re all screaming, THIS MAKES NO SENSE.

At least, I hope that’s what we’re all screaming. Because, seriously, it makes no damn sense. Because I didn’t ask for anything. I made zero comments in regard to commitment (god forbid). I simply told him that I thought he was really cool and that I’d like to have more sex.

After a week of radio silence — I take that back, he did send me a Snap of a cute little girl at the airport pushing the sweetest little roller bag and then, of course, the storefront of my favorite Whole Foods upon his return to downtown Denver — he has the audacity to tell me that I’ve met him at an interesting time.

If by “interesting” he means that we met on a dating app in which two people intentionally swipe right on each other in an effort to meet in person and date — I realize I’m taking a lot of liberties here about people’s Bumble motives — then yes, I met him at an interesting time. But c’mon, no, that is not what he means. And I know that you know that I know that this is the cop out move. Because I didn’t run into him at the laundromat on a Wednesday night to surprisingly sweep him off his feet.

I repeat, we met on a dating app.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Gemini.

Gemini who?

What about the time I asked Gemini to invite me on his next mountain expedition — after, yet again, Snapping me one of his 14,000-foot summits — and he said okay (with exclamation points), only to then continue Snapping me his nature views for three weekends in a row without ever giving me that aforementioned invite?

Yep, that’s the joke.

And you want to know what I’m so tired of hearing? That I overanalyze.

Riddle me this. Riddle me that. How does one not overanalyze in the face of The Commitment Crisis?

Let’s rewind for a minute. When I verbalized to my friends that I was going to say yes to every guy that asked me out, we had no idea what to expect — yes, the first-person plural pronoun is appropriate here because it’s NEVER just one girl going on the date. I’d like to report back that I was pleasantly surprised. Because I said yes to a lot of dates. Like six in a three-week timespan. No world record, I’m sure. But definitely more than I had taken in the last six months combined.

What I was not pleasantly surprised with were the actual dates themselves. Because, gawd, were some bad. Like the kind of bad where you show up and you get an awkward hug — and you realize that he’s clearly lied about his height online — and you’re already shooting yourself in the foot that you have to AT LEAST have one drink with this person. Meanwhile, you don’t want to divulge any private information because you just know that you’re never going to see him again.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, consider yourself blessed. It’s painful. Like, actual mental and physical pain.

But then, you will get that one. Legs wrapped around each other in the corner of a bar couch. Telling your life stories. Before he walks you to your car and grabs you by the waist, pressing you into the fibers of his existence. Your lips will stand still between each other as you both take a breath, the moment of final anticipation thinking about what it will feel like for tongues to touch. And, you’ll fall into it. Grabbing onto the top of his button-down shirt with your bare hand, reciprocating his intensity.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, consider yourself jipped. It’s beautiful. Like, actual mental and physical pleasure.

The catch is that it’s a game of numbers, and you have to go on a lot of those shitty dates to get even remotely close to the firework show.

Here’s the other catch, the firework show will probably text you when he gets home that he can’t wait to see you again and then he’ll probably never see you again. You’ll make an attempt to invite him to some environmental awareness event, and then he’ll tell you he’s traveling to California for work all week, and then he’ll suggest catching up the following week, and then he’ll never actually message you to do the whole “catching up” thing that following week (or ever).

Shocker.

So, back to overanalyzing.

I have a married male friend that I often refer to for man advice. If you have dated me — meaning, if you have gone on one date with me — then he probably knows about you (and has given you a nickname since I don’t reveal real-life identities).

Seriously, ladies, every double X chromosome needs some assistance from an XY counterpart every once in a while. Basically, so we don’t go mad with misunderstandings. A male litmus test, if you will.

Naturally, I asked him to weigh in on California. Because why in the world does a guy tell you he can’t wait to see you again only to never make plans to see you again?

XY: “I’m guessing that, after your date, he really meant that he’d like to hang out next week. He either didn’t remember that he had a work trip, or he just misspoke. Those are actual possibilities. I think that, in typical fashion, you are overanalyzing it all.”

I’m a thinker, don’t get me wrong. And, my married male friend always gets points for honesty. I wasn’t even remotely offended by what he said. Because friends should expose us to the ignorant parts of ourselves.

I analyze. A lot. I get it.

I am offended that my over-analyzation was right. I’m offended that my worst-case scenarios keep coming to fruition. I’m offended that my cynicism is essentially undefeated. And I’m really offended that so many of us are lacking even the most minute amount of integrity.

Facts. We overanalyze because we can’t be honest with each other. And this isn’t a me problem. It’s a dating pool problem. As proven by Matthew and Gemini and California (and so many others that you can read more about here).

Editor’s note. Gemini actually Superman-ed me into having a clear-cut conversation about his expectations for our co-existence, and considering the fact that it was one of the more mature conversations that I’ve had with the male species to date, I plan on expanding on it in part two.

Dear Pop Culture, if “Superman-ed” is not the appropriate terminology for when a man has enough self-awareness to engage in — at the very least — a shitty conversation, I’d like to offer it up as a viable suggestion (as a verb, not a noun).

Here’s my final point before I leave you hanging in anticipation for my more detailed analysis in the second part of this series. All of these guys are allowed to not like me. I’m allowed to not like them. I assume these are rather obvious statements. We are not allowed to lie or succumb to silence as an effective means of illustrating our disinterest.

We can’t settle for ignorance — in others and, more importantly, in ourselves.

Because, if we do, it is impossible to raise the bar for our entire dating pool. And so many of us are sick and tired of swimming around in our collective karma of bullshit. The only way we get out of it is if each of us makes independent choices to show up responsibly so that we can all freestyle to shore together.

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In part two, I offer my analysis on why we seem to be on a hamster wheel with ghosting and these indecisive relationships.