I asked someone out a few Fridays ago.
Now, this is something I never do. In the two serious relationships I’ve been in, I wasn’t the pursuer. It’s not my normal operating mode. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not shy or a wallflower. No, far from it. It’s just, until recently in the past year, I never thought much of myself. Why would someone want to date me? I didn’t ask anyone out because I already knew the answer: no, NO, Hells no, are you dumb, you ugly cad?
It’s funny what our younger selves thought about who we were. Well, perhaps not funny, more sad than funny. Does time and distance from who we were offer up some kindness to the sad histories? Does time and distance allow us to see who we were back then without the horrible bubble of being trapped in yourself? I see pictures from a decade ago, a woman not yet come into her own style, own way of being in the world, own confidence of what midlife gifts us. I read the journal entries from that era, filled with yearning and questioning, the clawing nature of trying to find a place, a partner, a purpose. And now I think, Shit girl, you are literally effervescent. Don’t hide yourself away. Don’t be ashamed of what you think the world thinks of you.
Anyway, back to a few Fridays ago. She was our waitress, a friend and I were in her section. There were sparks. Her smile matched my smile, eyes lingered longer than typical waitress/diner glances. Bright eyes. She said her name was Summer (yes, let’s just call her Summer for privacy’s sake). Yes, a spark was there. Or maybe not? I don’t know. It’s been a little over a year since my previous relationship fell apart. In that last year of what ultimately ended up being a roommate situation, sexless and silent, I started questioning my worth as a partner, my worth as a sexual being, my worth at knowing how to love someone or ask for how I needed to be loved. So, maybe there was a spark, maybe there wasn’t. I am probably not the best judge of that, and looking back over the past weeks, Summer was probably just being good at her job. However, that spark on my end was clearly an indication that my heart had started to beat a little again. Those tendrils of wanting, of excitement and craving, had started to grow. It felt good.
A week later, another friend and I went back to the restaurant. We sat at the bar, shared a pizza, had a cocktail (or two). Summer wasn’t our waitress, but somehow, she brought our dessert to the bar where my friend and I had camped ourselves out over the past hour and a half, talking louder as the restaurant grew busier, and the patrons slowly decreased in age as the night went on. When she dropped off the dessert, Summer looked at me. Those eyes, that smile, the same spark.
I said, “Oh, hi, Summer! How are you?”
Her smiled widened. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad you came back.”
Swoon. Sweet, little, petite swoon. One would think, at forty-five, a woman might be past the age for swooning. But, I must admit, I did.
My friend and I finished our dessert, finished our cocktails, talked about how I should ask Summer out. I waited until we were done, bill paid, Summer alone clearing off a table. My approach was simple.
“I’m sorry if this is out of line,” I said, looking again into those eyes. “Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?”
She said yes. She said she’d like that. We fumbled about giving whose number to whom. She took mine, texted me Hey it’s Summer and I responded later. The next day, I sent a text asking if she’d still like to get a drink, about how I don’t have notifications on my phone so, if I don’t respond immediately, I’m not ignoring her. And then another text the evening after, suggesting a place and a few options of days to grab a drink. Ending it with a simple If you don’t want to get together, no hard feelings. No response, no On second thought, no nothing. Did I look at my texts more often over the next week, hoping for a response? Yes, yes I did.
A little less than two weeks later, I found myself at the same restaurant with another friend (truly, their fries at this restaurant, to die for). Summer was working. At the end of the meal, on my way back from the washroom, I leaned into the server’s stand, placed my left arm on the shelf, tried to look casual and cool and nonchalant, Gina Davis in Thelma & Louise cool, unperturbed, amused even. Summer looked up.
“I’m sorry if asking you out made you uncomfortable,” I said.
“Oh my god, I owe you a text,” she said, laying her hand on my forearm, smile wide on her face. “I was on vacation.” Sparks again, swoon, her cool, soft finger pads on my warm skin. Those eyes.
A few moments chat, she said she’d respond, I said something ridiculous like, Only if you want to. In the three weeks since, crickets. As my next tattoo will read, Abandon Hope.
How do we meet potential partners in midlife, when youth and dating apps and already partnered people and polyamorous love seem to be what’s in vogue? How do we find someone to spend time with, to see each other naked, to have intimacy and hold hands and cry and shoulders to lean heads on? I don’t use dating apps. The thought of swiping right (or is it left? I don’t know) endlessly seems pointless. I need to know if I have a spark, and that only happens in person. Julia Harrison wrote about many of my own frustrations around the current state of dating and being online in general (i’m declaring online dating dead). Go read it, please.
Add to the frustration with dating is this ghosting thing that I just don’t understand. Instead of speaking to someone or texting them, Hey, not interested. Good luck! you just get nothing. A blank space, a void, a wondering about what the other person is thinking. Communication is what is required in any personal relationship. Sometimes, the things we have to talk about will be difficult, hard conversations. When someone chooses not to respond, not to speak their truth, that is just as painful–if not more so–than not saying anything. I don’t know the reason for this, but I think some of it may stem from being raised online. The internet, social media in particular, is often a megaphone, a one-side conversation. There isn’t a requirement for dialogue to exist. I grew up in the era of telephone conversations, of passing notes during class, of long conversations on a Friday night drinking red wine (which my high school friends and I pretentiously dubbed soirées), our adolescent thoughts and dreams wide and big and lengthy. Our words came up against others, and we learned to navigate discussions, disagreements, or the excitement at finding someone with similar thoughts. As Harrison writes, dating apps are a curation of a performance of self. Social media, too. She says the authentic us is found when we don’t know we’re being watched.
The authentic self is the self that is unguarded, the self that is vulnerable. How can we find a partner if we’re always managing and manipulating the self we share with the world? How can we find friends–true friends–that will love us and stay with us when life gets hard? Because life does get hard, and we are social creatures. The community we build–our partner, our friends, our chosen family–will sustain us. As I wrote last week, I want to have the hard conversations (I also want the easy ones, too!). I want to find the partner that can tell me hard things, allow me to see my faults with some kind tenderness, to grow with this person and experience the multitudes we both contain. Love, both romantic and platonic, requires communication and consideration. It actually is work. Loving a person is a choice, and that choice begins with a simple desire to respond, to communicate.
I have wondered if it was out of place to ask Summer out at her place of work. Did I cause discomfort? Each interaction I had with her pointed in the direction that she was interested, too. It’s like being asked out at the gym, or the grocery store, or on a hike. Context and timing, right? Looking back on how I’ve been asked out before, the clever and clumsy ways both men and women have asked me, I think I didn’t do too bad. I don’t know what will come of Summer and me; more than likely, this will be the end of it. I will go back to the restaurant, simply because I like it (and it turns into a dance club on Friday and Saturday nights, and this gal needs to get her dance on this summer). I will try to have no expectations or desire for what will come if and when I see Summer again. I know I will be open, I know I will be kind. I will be the type of person I want to see in others. But the lack of communication already speaks about the type of person Summer is, and that type of person isn’t one to build a relationship with. As Maya Angelou said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” I suppose this is one of the things midlife has gifted me, the ability to see people through their behaviors rather than seeing them through what I hoped they would be.