Yesterday I seriously considered hurling my phone out my 25th floor window. Only two things stopped me: one, the fact that I’ve replaced three phones in the last six months (not from throwing them, I swear) and two, a legitimate worry that I might injure person or property.
Apparently a memo went out yesterday to all the men I’ve dated this year. It read, “Today’s a great day to reach out to Jennifer. Say something shitty.”
One, who failed to respond to my last message, wanted to sext—this after telling me last month that we shouldn’t talk about anything real because “then we’d be in a relationship, and then it would just be over.” One told me hooking up was a mistake, but he sent relentless message after message, demanding my friendship. One said he’d love for me to spend more time with him, just so long as I know that it’s never going to be anything serious. And one, whom I haven’t spoken to since we went out in July, wanted me to take a look at the book he’d recently finished and provide my expertise on the publishing industry.
Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t hurl myself out my 25th floor window.
Dating while traveling can be a lot of fun. This year I’ve gone on dates to a waterfall park in Croatia, the best burger spot in Berlin, and the top of a mountain in Hong Kong (spectacular view below). It’s a good way to explore a city and potentially learn a bit more about the culture. And let’s be real; I’m traveling for a year, so not dating at all isn’t much of an option.
But it also gives guys a great excuse to keep their distance, to not take you seriously. If you’re only in town for a week or a month, why would they invest in you? I alluded to this in a previous post as one reason why I don’t think constant travel is the right long-term choice for me.
The more I think about it, though, the more I believe that it’s the same song, different verse of the crap I get at home. “You don’t really live here” is just a variation on “I need to focus on work” or “I got out of a relationship recently and need time to myself.” Because when you call their bluff (and I have, twice), when you point out that you don’t really live anywhere, that you could hang out a bit and see where things go, they let the second round of excuses fly. Every reason can be translated to the same underlying truth: “I don’t like you enough to make the effort.”
And that is a sentiment with which I’m all too familiar. I mentioned before that I’ve been officially single for thirteen years—and before I left NYC, I was working with a matchmaker to try to change that status. I spent an insane amount of money and time from September through March. She brought a stylist over and dolled me up for new profile pics. I read books and took personality tests. I met with her once a week to review dates and discuss strategies. I went on upwards of three dates a week. And at the end of all of that, she sort of threw up her hands and said, “Eh, I don’t know. I’m not sure you like boys who like you, and vice versa. Maybe there’s not someone for you in New York…”
After 159 punishing days of international dating, I’m trying really hard not to draw the conclusion that maybe there’s not someone for me in the whole damn world.
This problem isn’t mine alone. I have a few limiting factors (not wanting kids, for instance) that make my pool of potentials a bit smaller. But I have an alarming number of gorgeous, smart, funny, objectively marketable girl friends who are single and don’t want to be, especially those who live in big cities. All of the reasons for this—apps, decreased focus on religion and community, the rise of non-monogamy, and so on—could, have, and will fill books.
But I digress. There’s a romantic myth about travel in particular. When I signed on to this trip, so many people, from my girl friends to the aforementioned worst matchmaker in the world, predicted that I’d fall in love along the way. My cynical brain resisted, but some squishy part inside, the one that likes romance novels and Hallmark movies, hoped it would be true. It’s certainly what the media tells us will happen—how popular would EAT PRAY LOVE have been without the love, really?
I’m guilty of perpetuating the myth myself. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. My client’s book that came out in June, THE WILD WOMAN’S GUIDE TO TRAVELING THE WORLD, is about a girl who falls in love on a trip to Hong Kong. And does he tell her, “Oh, sorry, the hot hotel sex was awesome, but time for you to go home now, bye”? Um, hell no, he does not. That would be a terrible story. (And it’s a great story; you should buy the book. Forgive the shameless plug, but things are clearly not going well here. Some good should come out of this crap.)
Real life, however, is not women’s fiction. It is not a romantic comedy. In real life, you go to Hong Kong, and you meet an amazing guy—via a dating app, because who meets in bars in 2017 anyway? You go on fun dates. He takes you on an adventure to the top of a mountain, where you kiss overlooking the city. You jointly delight in the discovery of your similar backgrounds, your hopes for the future. You start to appreciate his snark, his nerdiness. You have hot hotel sex. Then your trip is over. And instead of begging you to stay or following you to your next destination, he says, “I had a great time. If you happen to pass through again, let me know.”
That’s the real ending.
