What I've Learned About Dating By Going On Less Than One Date

Less than a week ago I turned 25. I had a very excited boy text me multiple times, wishing me happy birthday and triple checking to make sure I was having a good day. This is truly the most commitment I have gotten out of the opposite sex in my quarter of a century. In part, this is because I have become very good at maintaining my singleness. Even without my deeply rooted fears of commitment and affection from men, I am still incredibly independent, stubborn and an always-fun split between a damn lady who needs to be courted by a gentleman and a damn feminist who will not tolerate inequality of any kind, so don’t you dare try to hold open my car door. My Bumble profile basically writes itself.

In walks an unassuming, sweet, kind-hearted man who has decided he wants to pursue me. He begins texting me and asking insightful questions and being, in my humble-commitment-phobic opinion, much too forward. If you have ever seen the movie Inside Out, this is the part where the 12-year-old girl talks to the 12-year-old boy and all of his emotions start running around in his brain, setting off sirens, flipping their shit and screaming, “Girl! Girl!” Except I am 25 and I am the one losing my shit. Every single one of my fears, including ones I didn’t know I had, start presenting themselves to me at the same time. It is like my fears and I are in a car, driving on winding mountain roads, and they are all begging to drive. Fear of commitment. Fear of making the wrong decision. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of abandonment. They are fighting for control of the steering wheel and I am just trying to not fly off the side of a cliff as the car swerves in and out of oncoming traffic. This is day 1. Of TEXTING.

While I do have quite a bit of flair for the dramatic, I do think this is a fairly common experience. We often talk about the easy parts of dating. The butterflies and the cute coffee dates and the first kisses—all the things that would be Instagram worthy with a light filter and a caption that includes heart emojis. What we don’t talk about is how hard it is to let someone buy you a meal and how much anaphylactic shock you can suffer just from a guy asking the legitimate, straight forward, no-grey-area question, “Can I take you on a date?”

Maybe you’re an expert in the field of dating. Maybe you do it all the time and you don’t get caught up in all the semantics of what you feel before you even go on a first date. Congratulations on your sanity, but this no longer applies to you. Here is what all of my interactions with men have looked like since being an adult: I get dressed up in something that invites attention. I go out with my friends. I say "yes" to cute boys who ask me to dance and aggressively fend off any man who touches me without talking to me first. Whether or not I kiss someone is entirety dependent on how many Moscow mules I consume. I always peace out before a guy can get my number and I leave dissatisfied by the fact that I once again participated in our dating culture’s M.O. that using someone for a couple hours or nights or weeks is okay as long as it is mutual and we do it in the name of avoiding commitment and honesty. So a man being forward and decent and interested is what we might call a culture shock.

One day I will write in more detail about the immunity women have developed for good, honorable men, but for now I will just tell you a story. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks boy is cute. Girl stalks boy on social media and decides that he is funny and not a sociopath. Girl sees boy around town for months and doesn’t know how to speak to him because there is never enough alcohol in her system. In an unexpected plot twist, boy starts pursuing girl out of nowhere. He is kind and attentive and very clearly not playing games. Girl runs for the hills because she is overwhelmed and there is obviously something incredibly wrong with him.

In theory, we want good men to date us, but when good men come around we think it’s a scam. Boys who are mysterious and non-committal and flaky sit across the dinner table from us while men who are good and honorable sit in our friend zones. Good men are better in theory because it is too much work to sort through our own emotions about being unworthy and not enough and damaged, so we settle for the boys who confirm those things instead of letting in the men who challenge what we believe about ourselves.

I started writing this as satire because I think it’s hilarious and alarming how much junk can come up in your heart just from a boy starting to text you and ask you on dates, but honestly, dating is quite literally no joke. For the past three weeks I have felt like a crazy person who could really use a tranquilizer just because I am getting the attention of a boy human who actually wants to know me. If you feel crazy in the dating process, every single female I know and I will say that it’s normal. If you want to run away from good men and would prefer a little more guessing and shit treatment, also know that that’s normal (and I have the number of a good therapist). It doesn’t mean we don’t allow good men to make their way out of the friend zone, and it doesn’t mean we don’t take a strong shot of tequila before we go on a date when they do.

I have no great parting words or sound advice to leave you with, but a dear friend of mine would tell us both to “lean into the discomfort.” First dates and obnoxious texting and learning another human being like an awkward baby giraffe learns to walk are all necessary evils that lead us to deeper connection and intimacy, and I am slowly believing that could be worth it. Godspeed to us and the men we date.

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"On Heartbreak and Healing"
"The Poison of Perfectionism"
"In Defense of Loneliness"
"How Corporate Killed My Creativity And How I Got It Back"
"On What It Means to Matter: An Interview with Author Hannah Brencher"

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Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

When Life Feels Small

I hit a car in a parking garage once.

Nothing bad, really, just a ding in the door from a turn cut just a little too tight.

Truthfully, my car suffered the brunt of the bunt. But the other car was a nice one. I don’t remember the make or model—I’m not really a car person—but I do remember it was a convertible. Someone dropped a lotta dollars on this depreciating piece of metal, and I had just chipped paint off the gleaming door. Big yikes.

All because I was in a rush to get to my doctor’s appointment.

Practicing (and Failing at) Grace on the Road

Last week, I got stuck in a traffic jam on the interstate.

I was in a line of cars needing to merge into the bedlam of backed-up vehicles. We had an organized system in place, me and the cars in front of me: a car merged, then the car behind that car merged, and so on. I made my way into a gap between two 18-wheelers, neatly following the rules like the good girl I am.

But then—l'horreur!—what did the cars behind me do? Speed down the on-ramp in an effort to get ahead by usurping the follow-the-leader system of merging we had all tacitly agreed upon.

Teacher, they’re cutting!

I was… not happy.

Anne Lamott writes, “Sometimes the movement of grace looks like letting other people go first.”

That’s nice.

Here’s what I did instead.

Developing Community: Moving Towards a Space of Vulnerability, Intentionality, and Diversity

My parents moved me in and helped me explore this new city for a few days, but eventually this new place had to become my own. I tried out the coffeeshops (which didn’t compare to the ones back home) and became acquainted with people at my seminary. I found interest in what I was learning and “plugged in” wherever I could.

Quickly, however, I began to realize a need in myself for deeper community. I longed to be around people with similar mindsets. Mindsets that didn’t just recognize but acted on vulnerability, intentionality, and diversity. These types of mindsets had been prevalent in the community I was around at my undergrad, so I was puzzled as to why I was overlooking them here.

No Man Is An Island: An Ode to Our Neediness

The last few years of my life—so basically my Full Grown Adult Years—have been a reinforced lesson in this one simple yet slightly-jarring fact: we need each other. I mean, need-NEED each other.

“No man is an island,” says Thomas Merton, and my bae C.S. Lewis backs this up further by writing, “We need others physically, emotionally, intellectually; we need them if we are to know anything, even ourselves.”

We’re meant to be needy, but why is it so hard to acknowledge and accept this?

Say What You Need

Now maybe it wasn’t your family or your upbringing that made you neglect voicing your needs. Maybe it was a toxic relationship or a difficult work environment. Maybe it was someone who told you that your needs were selfish or that the desires of your heart didn’t matter.

Whatever it was, I urge you to identify those people or experiences or situations and start using that knowledge to change.

New Things, Better Things (A Reprise): Words for When You're Stuck in the Past

But while I’ve tried to convince myself that I am looking forward, staring straight at the wide open interstate ahead, I spent so many months still sneaking peeks into the rearview mirror every few seconds, not quite accepting that the road behind me is, in fact, behind me.

But this story isn’t the whole of my story, only a minor plotline amongst the greater. Even so, ignoring it won’t erase it like the stroke of the delete key. It may be a minor plotline, but it is a plotline woven tight around the greater story of my life for several years now.

I can’t ignore it.

A Beginner's Guide to the Enneagram

Maybe you, like me, have become curious about the Enneagram because it is popping up everywhere in conversations and on your social media timeline. Maybe you know everything there is to know and have become quite fluent in Ennea-lingo (you even know that there are sub-types!).

Maybe this is the first time you’re ever hearing about this weird test and you’ve spent the last four paragraphs trying to figure out how to even pronounce the word “Enneagram” (In-ee-a-gram, for the record).

No matter where you’re at, we can all use some guidelines when it comes to personality tests, because none of us are immune to over-identifying, self-shaming, and becoming a walking personality-test-fulfilling prophesy. So, without further ado, here are my dos and don’ts of Enneagram-ing.

The Battle to Overcome Your Rejection

Rejection is an issue I’ve had to wrestle hard with over the last three years. Every time Rejection and I had to face off in the boxing arena, I would always end up slammed and pinned down. In boxing, you have ten seconds to get yourself up before the game is over. For me, it took months before I could even peel my head off the floor.

How to Respond to Someone Else's Grief

But this post isn't about my own grief. It's not about the tears I've cried, or the questions I've asked. It’s not about my own days where getting out of bed felt too hard.

It's about a different side of the fight. It's about your mom's grief when she loses her college roommate. And your best friend after she has a miscarriage. It’s about all the people you encounter, telling you about their grief.

So Lonely I Could Die: What I Have Learned About Loneliness

The night it happens I’m alone. Afternoon slides into darkness, a day gone without notice. I put on a rom-com. I paint my nails. I wait.

I’m jonesing for junk food, so I walk up over the hill and get fries and a shake at the Park Street McDonald’s. On my way home through the Common, it starts to pour. My sandals take on water like a sponge. I squelch up to the third floor and towel off. The fries are cold and the milkshake is cloyingly sweet. I regret ever wanting them. I am still alone.

RelationshipsChelsey SatterleeMarch 11, 2018FeaturedComment

What I've Learned About Dating By Going On Less Than One Date

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