by Michelle Tea
On our first date, Dashiell actually told me how important it was to be happy—that she felt it should be a choice, and it was what she chose. She loved her life so much, I was taken aback. She’d been reared in the suburbs and was close with her mom (I’d noted a correlation between unresolved mama drama and difficulty giving and receiving l-u-v). She had a great relationship with her ex, which seemed promising. An ex vouching for your good character in spite of a broken relationship seems to me a great vote of confidence. Next, Dashiell told me that she loved her job. This was astounding. I can tell you for certain that I had never dated anyone who loved their job. I dated artists and musicians, for whom jobs were the necessary evil that paid the bills while keeping them away from their life’s true purpose. But Dashiell was not an artist or a musician. She was . . . a businessperson. I had seen them on TV! They were mostly dads, or women from the eighties with shoulder pads. I tried not to hold against Dashiell that she loved her businessperson job so much. I’d just see how things went with this strange creature. We sat at this cute seafood restaurant with mermaids painted on the walls for three hours, fascinated by one another, chatting, nervous but working through it, although she did eat the butt end of a mysterious cut of fish and try to play it off like she knew what she was doing. When the glares from the waitstaff were too much to ignore we relinquished our table, and Dashiell walked me home.
Over dinner, I’d found Dashiell sweet and wholesome enough to be positively exotic. Surely I’d never dated someone so pleasant and cheerful, so satisfied and optimistic. That I liked her back seemed not only a romantic boon but a sign that all the work I was doing on myself was paying off. I’d been training myself to be attracted to someone who was happy and sweet and kind and generally well adjusted, and it appeared that this was happening! Now I just needed to make sure we liked kissing each other. We talked a bit outside my house, and then I made the move. Improving on the “Wanna make out?” slurred seduction of my youth, I now simply went in for the kiss. It was awesome. A swoony, dizzy, knee-weakening, dopamine-releasing make-out. I totally wanted to club her over the head and drag her up to my lair, but I didn’t. There was now a Rule for Love, applied to those who seemed to fit into the Marriage Material slot, which Dashiell surely did. That rule was: no sex until the third date.
Three dates? Not since I was twenty years old had I waited so long! You need to know if you’re sexually compatible was the rational, self-help spin I’d put on my past sluttery, but really I’d just wanted to get high. And I didn’t want to use Dashiell like a drug, even if I was already reeling from her kiss.
On our second date we went for pizza, and I waited for Dashiell to unzip her face. Now that I had grown accustomed to spotting red flags, I was hungry for one. Say something questionable, do something weird, hurt my feelings, come on! I was ready to walk out and prove to myself that I wasn’t going to be suckered into another rendezvous with a handsome sociopath/depressive/opiate addict/whatever. But Dashiell continued to be sweet, and considerate, and interesting. She was rather serious, but I’d stalked her on Facebook and saw many pictures of her laughing wide-mouthed with her friends, and couldn’t wait to see that side of her, too. I sort of invited myself over to her house, met her small, barky dog, Rodney, and made out with her on her couch. When she suggested we move it into the bedroom I said, “Fine, but I’m not taking my pants off.” And I didn’t. My red pants left pink marks all over her white comforter.
I’d never thought about pacing in a relationship before. I was always so spun out on chemical cravings, I wanted everything to happen all at once. It was sort of delightful to be stretching out our dates—no crazy texting, no seeing each other every single day, spacing it out. Having a proper courtship. Getting to know each other. We both thought our pacing—so relaxed, so gentle, as if we had all the time in the world to get to know one another and fall in love—was magical. We respected one another’s independence. We’d both been in relationships with mean and/or unstable people, and wanted to take our time making sure we really were the people we were saying we were.
A little less than a year after we’d started dating, Dashiell and Rodney moved into my apartment. Six months after that, Dashiell surprised me on New Year’s Day with a jewelry box. I had been looking forever for a jewelry box that was big enough to hold my cache of thrifted jewelry and that didn’t have, like, a twirling ballerina or something similarly froufrou going on. This jewelry box looked like a miniature suitcase, a deep brick red etched in gold. It was perfect. We sat on the couch in our PJs as I discovered drawer after drawer-within-a-drawer.
“There’s one more at the bottom,” she urged. When I slid it open, I found a fucking diamond ring sitting there. I blinked at it, as if it were a hallucination. “What?” I think I yelped. I was suddenly hot and cold and underwater, in my body and out of my body, dizzy and giddy, laughing and crying. Dashiell asking me to marry her was the biggest natural high I’d ever experienced. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t said yes (though I had thought it went without saying) until she was like, “Well? Well?” And I said yes.
“It’s not a blood diamond, is it?” I asked nervously between tears. Dashiell said that she had asked the salesperson and the salesperson had said no and then her friend who had gone with her for moral support had said, “Don’t ask again.”
I never thought I would give a crap about a diamond. I’m actually certain that I’ve gone on tears about why people make such a big deal about them, when lots of rocks—take, for example, amethyst, my birthstone—are cool and beautiful and have mystic-crystal properties. But once I had it on my finger I was like, Holy shit. It’s pretty. It sparkles. And the experience of being proposed to with a ring is sort of a famous experience. I’d seen it happen to people on TV and in movies my whole life, and now it was happening to me. There was something surreal about that, about my weird life suddenly syncing up with the lives of countless normal people everywhere, that I couldn’t help but love. In wanting marriage I wanted to find someone I could pledge myself to who could pledge herself back to me, and I found that with Dashiell. But I hadn’t expected to be given so grand a token, and it knocked the breath right out of me. It was like that whole otherworldly moment of love and surprise and fantasy and reality all became crystallized in that sparkling mineral, and I think about it all the time—when I’m holding out my hand and gazing at it, overcome with love and gratitude and looking like a crazy lady from some 1950s poster of womanhood.
The years I’d spent trudging through my love swamp of Internet Girlfriends, Fake Johnny Depps, and depressive Cruise Dudes had taught me every stupid lesson I needed to learn in order to get my romantic shit together. Without those ridiculous relationships, I wouldn’t have formulated my rules. And without my rules and the work they forced me to do, I don’t think I would have even noticed Dashiell. A happy businessperson? How would I have spotted her through the throngs of miserable ne’er-do-wells I was swooning over? And Dashiell wouldn’t have fallen for me, either, that spazzed-out, love-drugged, hypomanic chemical mess. Doing things differently brought out a different side of myself, made me a whole different person. And the only person who loves her more than Dashiell does is me.
6.
How to Break Up
Okay, I’ve broken down the details of the trifling fools I’ve dated, and maybe you’re like, Ohmigod I am so dating someone just like that right now! How do I break up with them? And what do I do when I’m all broken up? Well, you go to Paris. But first let’s dump these chumps!
I’ve always found relationships very hard to get out of. Not everyone is like this. Some people are wild heartbreakers, terrified of commitment, quick to bolt the minute you up the intimacy level by, say, making them breakfast in bed. This just happened to a dear friend of mine. The dude broke it off while they were naked and cuddling, haunted by the grocery bags in the kitchen filled with bacon and eggs and fruit and coffee. Being loved that sweetly was too much for him.
You do not want to date a person so threatened by love he can’t even allow you to scramble him some eggs, so sometimes getting dumped is a blessing. You want to find someone you can dote on and make crush crafts for and bake late-night brownies for and whatnot. Because this is what makes love fun. And you want to make sure your love is fun.
Some will challenge this. There is a loudmouthed demographic who believe that love is hard, that it’s lots of fighting and struggle. There is no arguing with them, because for these people love is lots of fighting and struggle. Fortunately, you’re not obligated to date these people. I have always known in my heart that a relationship could be smooth and happy, even though almost every single experience up to dating Dashiell seemed to prove me wrong. I don’t know why I let myself hold on to this elusive ideal, but thankfully I did, and now I’ve finally got myself a fun relationship with a person who squeals at her good fortune when I do sweet things for her, who does sweet things for me in turn. It is true that she is not the norm. But she exists, so others like her must exist, and they are worth holding out for. At the center of such a pledge is self-love: You are worth holding out for a happy relationship. You don’t have to take a lot of bullshit, or walk on eggshells, or wait for things to get better. You can break up. Let’s get started!
One thing I learned from my many failed relationships is that you always sort of know when it’s over. That doesn’t mean you’ll end it right away. It’s a little like drinking—you might have a sinking suspicion you’re an alcoholic, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to put down the cocktail. You’re going to have to hit a couple of bottoms—peeing yourself, maybe, or getting fired for calling in with a hangover one too many times—before you make a change. If your relationship MO is anything like mine, you’re likely to stretch the bad times out as long as possible, hoping that something will suddenly change, even hoping that maybe the suckiness is all your fault—you’re not getting it properly—and if you just hold out you’ll have some sort of revelation and finally understand why your date is such a douche and you’ll be okay with it, and y’all can love happily ever after.
So, feel free to hang out awhile in that holding pattern, treading dirty water, or cut it off now, get your grieving going, and get over it all that much faster! If you’re unsure if your relationship is at the point where you need to murder it, here is a little checklist:
Your date can’t say for sure that they actually want to be with you. They’re, like, confused or something. Maybe they want to be free, man! They want to try dating skanks and getting STDs for a while. Or—maybe not. Maybe you are the best thing they will ever know, and they should stay with you forever. They’re just not sure.
Fire this punk. They don’t know whether they want to be with the best, funniest, most interesting, and hottest person in the galaxy? (That would be you.) You do not have the time to hang out and wait for them to come to their senses. To wait around for such a thing is a massive drag on your self-esteem. Doubt like this slashes right into your heart, and all your self-love starts leaking away. The only thing to stop this drain of your very own life force is to tell this sucker to take his cat and leave.
As far as I’m concerned, there are only two answers to the question “Do you want to be with me?” One is yes; one is no. “I don’t know” gets filed under no. I want someone who not only knows they want to be with me, but knows they are freaking lucky to be with someone as totally awesome as I am, and I want you to want that, too. I wasn’t born with this confidence—no way. I assumed it (faking it till you make it really works!), and then I fortified it by breaking up with people who were bringing me down.
Before you write me off as some crazy diva who is hanging out on a chaise longue powdering my face with a big fluffy puff and tossing bon mots like, “You are so lucky to get to be with me!” let me say that I should be feeling incredibly lucky to be with whomever I’m dating, too. It should be mutual. That’s the point. And if it’s not, cut and run and find someone you can have a Mutual Admiration Society with. Because if your date doesn’t know if they want to be with you, it is very likely coward code for I don’t know how to break up with you. Don’t hang around waiting to be broken up with. There is nothing more humiliating.
Your date is all hung up on another person. Gross! Dump that chump! This has happened to me on a few different occasions, and it never turned out well. Once I was a rebound for someone who stated very clearly that he was on a rebound and that he had very little to offer me. This was great communication on his part. I should have ended it right there. You, reader, should end it right there. I got all tangled up in this person’s mixed signals for a month or so, before storming out of his apartment on Valentine’s Day after he couldn’t stop sadly talking about how much his cats missed his ex. Another date would get so upset by the proximity of a recent lover that full-blown panic attacks would ensue, which she would soothe with red wine and pills that would then sicken her, triggering a brand-new panic attack about her health, as she was a hypochondriac to boot. It was a terrible cycle that I couldn’t do anything to help. Know why? It had nothing to do with me. If you’re looking to create a deep and meaningful bond with someone, and they are so obsessed with their ex that they become nonfunctional in that ex’s presence, it’s time to break up. It’s fair to expect a date’s enthusiasm and infatuation for you to outweigh whatever grief they might still have over those in their past. If they don’t, then you shouldn’t be dating them, and maybe they shouldn’t be dating at all.
You’ve opened up your relationship. Just break up. Unless you are a free-spirited Polyamorous Polly at heart and you’ve always wanted to live in a nonmonogamous manner, flinging the bedroom doors open on your LTR is just procrastinating its demise, and guaranteeing that it will be much more painful and dramatic. If you’re at the point where you’re willing to endanger the relationship by sleeping with other people, just end it. I don’t know of a single couple this plan has worked out for in the long run. When I tried it there was a month or so when I was blown away by the new amour possibilities available to me and was giddy, nearly high, with it all. It was a strangely sweet pleasure to share this with my LTR, but the novelty wore off as reality and its attendant feelings set in. Because it ultimately sucks to watch your person get all head-over-heels over someone who grosses you out a little. How can you make out with him knowing he just made out with her? Yuck. Plus, I found it a creepy, lonely feeling to be handed so much freedom. I’d like to be held a little closer; would like for the thought of me frolicking elsewhere to inspire at least a little jealousy. Or, even better, a lot of jealousy. Do what you should have done a month ago and end that shit.
You fight all the time. Your life is better than this. Fighting all the time is bad for your health, raising stress hormones that make you crave Doritos and leave you vulnerable to heart attacks. Listen—there is never any reason to fight. Any conflict can be worked out by just, like, talking. Talking sweetly, even. Being on one another’s teams. Constant fighting results in you seeing your partner, on some level, as your enemy. Don’t be sleeping with the enemy. Go find someone who is nicer, and sleep with that person instead. And if you’re the one starting fights all the time, go to therapy. You don’t have to live like that.
You’re not actually dating. You’re intriguing—a flirting that feels like it’s building toward something. You’re sexting. Maybe the person lives on the other side of the country. Maybe they have a partner so they can’t go all the way with you; they can only engage you on the dopamine level and fuck with your mind all day by sending you naked photos or something. Maybe they have commitment issues, or maybe are working the long con and in a couple of weeks you’ll find yourself buying them an iPhone or something. Even though you’re not actually dating, this person is taking all your emotional and mental energy. You keep waiting for something to happen. Guess what? Nothing is going to happen. How long has it been? Count the days. If something was going to happen, don’t yo
u think it would have happened by now? You are being played. Cut off all contact with this person, and get mourning. Your friends might not understand what you’re going through—after all, it’s true you weren’t dating. But this player engaged your heart, your hopes, your dopamine. The crash you are feeling is legit. Cry into your pillow and then get back into the real world.
You’re walking on eggshells. You’re dating someone with intense negative sensitivities. Saying the wrong word sets her off. So does mentioning a person she doesn’t like (and she doesn’t like most people). Listening to a song she detests makes her spittle in disgust. You’ve become scared to profess enjoyment of anything because you don’t want to be told that you’re wrong, that your taste is bad. You hold much of yourself in, trying to talk only about the things she likes. Which means there is not that much to talk about, because you’re dating a hater. You become obsessed with doing things to make her happy, so that the two of you might enjoy a pleasant moment and you can relax. Ugh. Does this sound like a living hell to you, or what? If you find yourself biting your tongue, not being honest or natural because you fear it will set off your date, stop hanging out with her. It’s doomed anyway—believe me. At some point, this negative, moody monster will decide that you are just like the rest of humanity—not good enough. You probably already know this is likely—isn’t that why you feel so stressed and nervous all the time? Waiting for that other loafer to drop? You drop the other loafer, damn it! Chuck it at her head and get the f out of there! Happier people await you.