In the two short months that we dated, he tried on several different skins and seemed equally uncomfortable in each. He was like a bear at the circus that people keep dressing up in awkward costumes. Maybe he’ll ride this unicycle. Maybe he’ll wear a tutu. Maybe he’ll play the accordion. Except it wasn’t being done to him, he was doing it to himself.
Dating is such a strange sport. It’s the quintessential one-on-one match-up. When you start the game, you try to size up your opponent as quickly as possible and match their quirks and eccentricities with your own in a way that will complement or counter, as appropriate. The trouble is, sometimes your opponent doesn’t exactly know who he is. So, finding out where you fit or repel is almost impossible. That was the case with Mr. Identity Crisis. In the two short months that we dated, he tried on several different skins and seemed equally uncomfortable in each. He was like a bear at the circus that people keep dressing up in awkward costumes. Maybe he’ll ride this unicycle. Maybe he’ll wear a tutu. Maybe he’ll play the accordion. Except it wasn’t being done to him, he was doing it to himself. And I was the little bear next to him trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Okay – now you wear tutus? I can wear a tutu… Oh wait, now you ride a unicycle… Want to add another wheel and another seat so we can both ride? Oh… no… now we play the accordion… Geez, I give up. Now that I’ve given away the punch line, I guess I’ll tell the story.
The first time I met Mr. Identity Crisis we went for lunch to a Thai restaurant. We had iced tea and Pad Thai. We bonded over our interest in cultures, international destinations and cuisines. We both liked history and talked about shows we liked on the Discovery Channel. He was funny, handsome and sophisticated. “Yay!” I thought as I walked to my car, “He’s nice. He’s normal. He’s cultured. He’s cute. Maybe this is a good one!” We’ll call this version, Mr. International.
On our second date, we met at a pub with a nice patio to enjoy the beautiful weather. I started to interact with Mr. International as we had done at the Thai restaurant, but he wasn’t there anymore. The man sitting across from me had morphed into another person entirely. He was comical, loud and out-going, cynical, and sarcastic to the point of crude. I was caught off guard, but tried to rally and meet him in this new place. I thought, “this must be him when he’s relaxed and less buttoned-up…” Over the course of our date, he downed seven beers, devoured a Rueben sandwich and fries and then ordered a meat and cheese plate and ate that too. Halfway into the beers and food, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. When he sensed my distaste he said unapologetically, “Hey, I put ‘occasionally’ on my profile,” and offered me the pack. He said he learned to smoke in the Marines when he was young. As we left, he pulled me up into a kiss. When I cringed away from the taste of ashtray salami, he said, “Don’t like Marines?” We’ll call this version, Mr. Marine.
Then one day we met for brunch and as you guessed, the man who sat across from me sipping coffee and picking at his pancakes was a stranger to me. Cheerless and gloomy, he quietly told me about his psychological problems and social anxiety, seeming on the verge of tears. Once again, I was surprised and tried to temper my expectations to meet him in this new place. I had invited him to a party with me and he begged off, saying he couldn’t stand crowds. Minutes before I left for the party, however, he texted that he wanted to go after all. So I picked him up. We weren’t there for an hour before he started asking when we could go. We’ll call this version, Mr. Manic.
Finally, he asked me to meet him at Central Market for dinner. He made himself a kale salad and bought some Kombucha (a healthy fermented tea that smells like vinegar). When we sat down to eat, he told me about how he was very much into yoga and health. I asked if he was turning over a new leaf, thinking perhaps he was hoping that a new healthy lifestyle would help curb his anxiety. But he looked at me like I was crazy. He said he’d always been into health and wellness. To prove it, he regaled me with his daily nutrition and exercise regimen – morning health smoothies, salads and lean meats for meals… He said he’d belonged to a professional yoga studio for years and took exercise very seriously. He said on our next date we should jog around the lake. We’ll call this version, Mr. Yogi.
The next day I got a text. “Does my lifestyle bother you?”I was very confused by this. Which lifestyle could he mean? Did he mean Mr. International’s self-possessed, cultured lifestyle? Mr. Marine’s boisterous smoking, boozing lifestyle? Mr. Manic’s depressive, introvertive lifestyle? Or Mr. Yogi’s kale and yoga lifestyle? I responded, “I don’t know what you mean.” “Well,” he texted “based on your restaurant choices and the fact that you don’t want to run around the lake with me, I think you may not be into what I’m into. I want to be healthy and surround myself with people who support me.” (Momentary aside – I had suggested an Italian restaurant, since Italian food is my favorite. I can only imagine that’s what he was referring to. And the lake he mentioned is 11 miles around. I like to exercise, but I don’t think a red-faced, sweaty run is a great date idea. Especially since I would very likely die on mile 4.)
I didn’t respond to this text because I was too confused to know what to say. A few minutes passed and he texted again, “Maybe this is something we should talk about in person.” I responded that it was. That was the last time I ever heard from Mr. International, Mr. Marine, Mr. Manic, or Mr. Yogi, aka Mr. Identity Crisis. It’s really too bad. If he had been able to settle somewhere in the middle of all of these people (and jettisoned the cigarettes, of course) I might have been happy to wear tutus and play the accordion on a bicycle-made-for-two with him.