Oh, the frustration. Sometimes I feel like I’m navigating my way through a corn maze, turning this way and that, never reaching an endpoint, an escape.
I can remember being twelve and waiting for the day when I could go out with friends, drive my own car, and go on a real date. Ha. Been there done that, and at twenty-six I’m beginning to wonder what fourteen years of dating (with a few intermissions) does to the soul and the brain.
So, I got to thinking, what has changed? Well, certainly the dating process. When I was sixteen boys, I emphasize boys, picked me up from my house, in their cars, and met my parents. Okay–there’s a process, a gentlemanly one, I could do without the adolescent parental meeting but the offer of a pickup would be nice. I’d probably deny, given my current safety measures, but again it would be gentlemanly.
Then we’d go on the date, probably drive to restaurant or a movie, after which we’d return home. He’d drop me off.
Huh. Well, at twenty-six, I’m getting offers for coffee (which I don’t even drink for pleasure) and/ or a cocktail, really? I’m going to be pretty hungry– but highly caffeinated or a bit intoxicated, that’ll do.
Um, why am I dating again? I’ve decided it’s a political game–the politics of the heart, gender, and mind.
Or maybe it’s all just one big sex conspiracy. I’ll have to meditate on that one.
a dating whit.