We’ve gone over the greatest hits. We’ve discussed the needless cautionary tales. Now let’s talk about the practical application of unhelpful pointers in the dance of shattered knees that is actual dating.
“REJECTION IS PROTECTION”
You can call me histrionic, mainly because nobody ever has yet, but telling somebody this is straight up dangerous.
Like any sensible person, I have a complex relationship with puppets. Back in the days of yore, when it took a thousand mortal lifetimes of weathering the frenzied shrieks of ravenous banshees to get on what passed for the internet, they were a pretty big bulk of my media diet. They were mostly jovial wags who imparted their knowledge of words that began with the letter ‘E,’ but at the same time they were very often flat out terrifying. Jim Henson, who got that kids absorbed things better when it came by way of silicone and whimsy, also knew that they needed to understand what it felt like to be scared every now and again.
Because, in a great span of ways, it’s not healthy to be safe all the time. There’s a gulf the size of between being reckless and taking a risk, but being constantly held back from experiencing heartbreak or interpersonal turbulence can turn some people desperate for certain types of affection. This can make you vulnerable to all manner of unacceptable things. If you’re romantic immune system isn’t shored up with some occasional sick, it can’t learn fight off malignant parasites in human guise and the emotional fluid discharges they cause. None of us starts off knowing exactly what we want in someone else. I’d wager my near-totally fulfilled Taco Del Mar punch card that a lot of us still won’t for sure until when, or if, we ever find it. But occasional disappointment helps give parameters of what that might look like, and more importantly what it doesn’t. Palettes for other people need exposure to become refined, like with Jelly Bellies or Blade Runner edits.
It’d be nice to experience something for once, even if it’s less than great. Seems like guys who worked as cleaners for the Gambino Family living in WITSEC now are getting less protected than I am. Naturally, it would suck in every dimension when it didn’t work. And the smart money says I’d end up right back here writing a ridiculous tirade about wanting to surgically excise my emotional cortex, pan-fry it in lemon oil and sneak it onto a sample tray at Costco just to make sure it was banished to oblivion. But it’s still better than spending year after year with my nagging suspicions that I’ll never be good enough for anyone gradually calcifying into steadfast belief.
But anyways, my penchant for wearing bedsheets out of superhuman laziness and managing to break even on the Triple Crown every year, I’m not an oracle. Neither are you. None of us have any way of knowing if being turned down means Skynet never goes live or if soulmates will have to wait until another lifetime to finally meld into one another. You can’t possibly prove that every decline I’ve ever gotten wasn’t a missed opportunity at something grandly fulfilling. And until you can, kindly stop trying to convince me otherwise.
“THERE’S A TON OF SINGLE PEOPLE OUT THERE”
Somehow, these are favorites of married (monogamously, as near as I can figure) folks I know that haven’t been involuntarily single for more than 72 consecutive hours since high school.
Since my whole shtick with this series is going forth to do battle with cliches, I’ll throw out this one to paint with: There’s roughly 3.5 trillion fish scurrying about this big salty marble we’re making a go at living on, which can be catalogued into 32,000 different species. 27,000 of those are deemed safe enough for our consumption, and aren’t just floating sacs of neurotoxin wrapped in the spiny meat of a hideous phantasm from your most heinously traumatic nightmares. People pretty much stick to about a dozen of these, because we tend to like the best few options of most things. Just because something is gettable doesn’t mean it’s worth getting, especially when you know that certain aquatic monsters are a lot more likely makes your tastebuds break out in melodic rhapsody but have been overfished to the point of being impossible to find.
I don’t tell the distraught baker at my donut spot that there’s tons of Ansault pears out there to make fritters with, not having any clue they went extinct in the early 1900’s. Please don’t do more or less the same thing regarding a dating pool that, in all likelihood, you yourself have no reason to have any knowledge of.
THERE’S LOTS OF PEOPLE OUT THERE WHO LIKE (INSERT PERONAL TRAIT OR QUALITY YOU’RE INSECURE ABOUT)”
Again, where is this intel coming from?
“THERE ARE NO LEAGUES”
You know who gets to say this? People that are out of pretty much everybody’s league. Gorgeous, successful, magnetic, outgoing, cheerful, kind hearted, confident, welcoming sorts who always modestly and sincerely claim to be the bashful opposite of all that. I’d say this is yet another morsel of wisdom offered up from behind well-meaning but painfully ignorant blinders, but in this case it’s a few degrees more frustrating since the very existence of many people who try to push it are themselves proof that it’s utter nonsense on a rollercoaster.
I need you to stop for a second and really ask yourself something, like seriously ask yourself – how frequently and fervently have you been amorously pursued? And how much success have you had as a pursuer? The battle to find meaningful partnerships isn’t a level playing field. And admitting that doesn’t mean you’re part of some elitist caste system that assumes everyone’s beneath you until the still-beating heart of a minotaur is offered up as a testament of valor or something. More than anything, it simmers down to pure and simple genetic happenstance. Some people join the world with thick, concentrated levels of aspects much of the world finds desirable already pulsating through their capillaries like so much Faygo syrup. More often than not, they end up being the ones fielding the most prospective offers and get to have the wonderful burden of choice. Others get to fight like hell to be chosen, over and over again, to no avail.
In the most vital, fundamental way, our shared humanity makes all of us equivalents in the deepest possible sense. But telling me that I have as good a shot at winning over the people who’ve made my heart pound the hardest just isn’t true, and it doesn’t offer up any solace at all. Getting rejected by someone, knowing that my odds weren’t all that great to begin with, means I tried like mad to show them I’m what they wanted with no expectations being crushed to powder. I much prefer that to thinking everyone’s chances are exactly the same, which means I wasn’t worth noticing because even on equal footing everything about me is shockingly sub-par. Plus, knowing I’ve been lied to totally ruins my cereal-for-dinner night.
Do not, ever, ruin my cereal night.
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