At one point or another all of my friends have asked me why I'm single. Even when I came out to my mother, her first words were, "Sweetheart, I know. I throw you a Wonder Woman themed birthday party every year. The real question is why you haven't found someone fabulous?" I'm not foolish enough to believe this constant barrage is because I'm so amazing that boys should be lining up. I'm just at that age when everyone becomes so relationship obsessed that "Can you believe this weather" gets replaced with "Who are you dating" as the acceptable ice breaker in the elevator or at the urinal. It's not that they want to talk about my relationship as much as they want to talk about any relationship, especially if that means they can talk about theirs. I've learned to return the question as soon as it's asked of me, because apparently, the best part about relationships is talking about being in one. Still, I can't deny that my hesitation to put myself out there has to do with my college boyfriend ending his break-up speech with, "You're going to make someone really happy one day."
I was furious. Among the standard list of break-up grievances, I was livid that he didn't think it necessary to use original material. I'm going to make someone happy one day? Is that the best cliche he could come up with? Why didn't he save us both some trouble and text me a form letter asking if we could still be friends? (Although, I shouldn't complain. This was the same boy who told me - in all seriousness - that Jesus wanted us to be together. I guess it all evens out.) But nearly three years later, the words are still with me. I'm "going" to make someone happy. Future tense. I have the potential, but I'm not living up to it in the present moment. The problem was I had tried so hard, just as I had in my few previous relationships and all of them ended the same way: they could see the potential, but in the end I didn't meet it.
From a young age, I've had an intense desire to please. I suppose it's partly because I've always been stared at. And not in a good way. Until college, I had enough acne to make a horse faint and was what the casual observer would call morbidly obese. Add in the fact that I'm a homosexual who is well over six feet tall and people tend to notice. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I had to seek the approval of others and not the other way around. You can imagine how this effected my dating technique and taste in men. "Yes, I believe Jesus wants us to be together, too. Isn't he the best? In fact, Jesus set me up on my last three dates." It may have hurt when he broke up with me, but I can't say he was wrong to do it.
Recently, I ended my dating dry spell with a guy who was tall, intelligent, and very well=off. On paper he was delightful, but in person he was less so: half way through the appetizer he had gone through all the text messages on my cell phone; during the entree he declared most of my interests were not masculine enough to be talked about publicly; and by dessert he had knowingly and unapologetically insulted my best friend. Incredibly, my reaction to all of this was to tailor what I said so he'd like me more, but I caught myself. I did not like this guy and I certainly would not like the kind of guy he was apparently attracted to. Why was I so willing to deny my love for all things Barbra and Liza for this schmuck?
When the check came, he asked if I wanted to go grab a drink at the bar next door. I had given a schizophrenic performance during the meal: hyper masculine in the beginning and flaming queen at the end. Why would he like that? Maybe I had misjudged. Maybe it could work out - and maybe if I censored myself a little he would like me enough to start a relationship. All relationships are built on compromise, right? I left the restaurant without him. I'm going to make someone very happy someday. And I'll be damned if that someone is anyone but me.
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