“That’s because you’re a coupler, Doug.”
Susie’s words had the ring of the absurd, but the sting of truth. You see, I’m one of those confirmed bachelors–the kind that doesn’t want to get involved, the kind that would rather say “goodbye” than “what now?”, the kind that goes bat-shit crazy with too much companionship. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve summed up my personality to others with the trite quip, “I need alone time like oxygen.” Yeah, I know, really original.
Still, the biggest downside I see in the proposition of marriage and family is that they’re just around all the time, like a tenacious booger that you can’t flick off your finger. A college professor of mine once told me, “Douglas, marriage is a beautiful institution, but who wants to live in an institution?” I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I’ve been called guarded, complicated, emotionally unavailable and worse. I’ve also said these things about myself by way of introduction. I’ve uttered, “I will die alone,” with an air of pride.
I’m always the last to know when a girl is flirting with me; a friend usually has to point it out, take on the role of coach, and put me in the game, “Now get out there and make me proud, Sport!” When I strike up a conversation with a pretty girl though, I start compiling a list of all the reasons I’d end up hating her. I couldn’t listen to that laugh for the rest of my life. The way she fidgets with her hair will drive me insane. Her excessive eye makeup is a sign of both poor taste and low self-esteem. I hate the way she pronounces the word “so,” as if it rhymes with “through.” She listens to Katy Perry, so we’d never be able to occupy a car together. Oh my god, is that a butterfly tattoo?! I can tell she’s going to get really fat later in life. She’s “sassy” and wants a man to put her on a pedestal without contributing to the relationship herself. She made the duck face. She wouldn’t be able to walk far in those heels.
My friend Tarah said to me once, “Goddamn, Doug! You just meet a girl and you’re already planning your divorce!” I like to think that I’m just really intuitive, that I know myself well, and that I can skip the pain in my ass of the trial-and-error approach to relationships. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, I say. It’s just all too goddamn messy.
I’m not a complete asshole, though. I do have a scruple or two. Knowing these things about myself means that I just avoid the dating scene altogether. I’m not trying to fool anyone or take advantage. I’m not the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. I don’t want anyone to feel duped.
A few months ago, in a fit of boredom, I watched the movie “The Five-Year Engagement.” I’m not a fan of rom-coms, but I like Jason Segel, and I had plenty of time to kill. The best thing about the movie is the dialog between Segel and Emily Blunt, whose characters are simpatico beyond expectation. They have a shared sense of humor, they’re relatable to the audience and each other, they can say things to each other that most couples would shy away from and be met with an “I know, right?!” instead of a “What the fuck did you just say that for?” I found myself thinking, “That’s exactly the kind of relationship I want to have.”
So, I went on a little field trip of the imagination, putting myself in their shoes, picturing what it would be like to have a dreamy fiancé that I connect with on the most ridiculous of levels. I imaged having the whole package: the witty banter, the presumption of goodwill, the laughter, the constant knowledge that you’re on the same team, the empathy, the laughter, the open communication, the kind gestures, the shared goals, the laughter, all rolled up in an intense sexual attraction. And laughter.
About two minutes into this daydream, I started having a panic attack. I felt trapped. I felt a huge weight on my chest. I had trouble breathing. Each utopian detail was like another brick entombing me like Fortunato in The Cask of Amontillado, and I started internally shouting, “I gotta get out! I gotta get out!” I shook my head wildly to snap out of it. It was like waking up from a nightmare, and I couldn’t help but to feel grateful that it was all in my head. I was safe. I was alone. I was going to be alright. Screw you, Ideal Woman! Amazing girlfriends can kiss my ass.
So, it was a shock when my friend Susie told me that I’m a coupler. And, she may have been right.
Every few years, I decide that I’ll give dating a go, that I’ll have a casual relationship, put my hate-list aside and just see where things might lead. I may avoid terms like “girlfriend” or “couple.” I may even tell the girl up front that I don’t want anything serious–that we’re just “hanging out.” In my mind, I’m keeping it casual and taking it slow. But the truth is that I don’t have a casual bone in my body, and I tend to do everything in my power to speed things along. I’m sensitive, I listen, I’m thoughtful and I care. I’m genuine, I let her know that I’m thinking of her, I ask questions and I give small gifts with disproportionate effort. I tell her she’s beautiful in the morning, I pay for shit, I open doors and cast knowing looks of singular admiration within group settings. I leave little notes and send long letters. I draw baths with candles and wine after her long day. I compliment her fashion decisions, I point out her talents and strengths, and use self-deprecating humor to keep her laughing and feeling needed. I cook, bake and always have a good bottle of vino or two to pour for her. I hold her hand, I kiss her goodnight, I even cuddle for Christ’s sake! In short, while saying that it’s casual, I try to be the best boyfriend ever.
I will race things along to the point where you need to have “the conversation.” Just when she’s feeling good and comfortable, just when she trusts me, just when I’ve gotten her complete buy-in, at the exact point when she’s starting to picture building a life together, I have a complete freak-out. Instead of the conversation that involves happy tears, hugs and commitment, I go with the conversation that involves, “It’s not you, it’s me.” It’s at this point where the excitement of something new starts to take a backseat to the anxiety that accompanies a real responsibility for another person’s happiness. There is absolutely no point in letting things plod along toward my inevitable breakdown. Let’s cut to the quick, go through the steps and have done with it.
I’m open, somewhat, to the idea that when I get to that tipping point, I might someday topple over on the side of a full-blown relationship. I imagine that it’ll catch me in a weak moment while my guard is down, that I’ll have a sort of “road to Damascus” experience that results in my eternal devotion. Maybe it’ll just take the right girl. Maybe I’ll be duped by some strategic genius who, through masterful manipulation and cunning trickery, steers me unwittingly into happiness.
But, not if I can help it.
