Dating Story #6 a/k/a...

The Push/Pull Hug

Up. Down. Left. Right. Over. Under. Good. Bad.

Opposites. According to the dictionary, the definition of opposite is: contrary or radically different in some respect common to both, as in nature, qualities, direction, result, or significance; opposed: opposite sides in a controversy; opposite directions.

Try and imagine two opposite things going on in your mind at the same time. For example, feeling compelled to walk in two different directions simultaneously, like Steve Martin in the movie "All of Me". Your arms and legs would be flailing, you’d be confused and unsure of what direction you were supposed to go while trying your best to appear you had at least some idea of what you were doing. Sarah Palin sitting down for an interview comes to mind, if you need a visual.

Or, think about wanting to both eat and yet not eat, much like a bulimic supermodel sitting at a table eating and then running off to the bathroom to purge. Back and forth, eat, purge, eat, purge. Even if the end result is that you can fit into that bathing suit you last wore when you were 18, I would think it’s all rather exhausting.

OK, now that you have bulimics and Sarah Palin in your head, let’s get to the dating story.

I met H on the 4th floor of the Center. I had just left another unsuccessful speed dating event and literally bumped into him. He was in his early to mid 40’s and cute. Very cute. "Hello" he said awkwardly and I answered, just as awkwardly, "Hello." We chatted as we walked downstairs and continued chatting outside, where H asked if I’d like to have dinner with him sometime. "Sure" I answered. "I’d love to." Unfortunately, no sooner had I answered yes, when H responded with red flag #1. "I wasn’t sure if you were interested." H said. "I really don’t understand this gay stuff."

Note to gay newbies: "I don’t understand this gay stuff" is not something you want to hear from a potential date. It’s akin to being asked over for dinner by a cannibal or having a blind man offer to drive you somewhere. H, as I would learn over a handful of dates as more red flags leapt from his mouth, was the ultimate in opposites: a homophobic homosexual. Yet, ignoring the alarm bells in my head and the quizzical looks from friends, I would end up saying yes to 4 nights out with H.

Apparently, H was working very hard to become more comfortable with his sexuality, but still disapproved of his own life. Being with him was like watching a young child first misbehave and then punish himself by sitting in the corner. If I tried to hold his hand, he’d move a good three feet away. Asking for a kiss was out of the question. I’m sure he would have preferred to have his lips surgically removed before he’d allow them to touch mine.

Ironically, H’s one attempt at a display of affection was what caused me to tell him I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything further. At the end of our last evening, H reached out to give me a hug. "See," he said, "I’m getting better at this." Better, in this case, was a relative term. H’s hug was like no other. He had one hand on my shoulder, lightly pulling me toward him. Meanwhile, his other hand, on my waist, was firmly pushing me away so that no parts of our bodies could actually touch. There are studio apartments with far less space than what we had between us during that embrace.

I didn’t see H again after that awkward hug. H struggled with being gay, even though he had already reached middle age while I often feel I popped out of the womb waving a rainbow flag. And while opposites may indeed attract, sometimes they’re better off simply going in different directions.

Quaker Oats and Broken Hearts

I was out walking the other day when a teenage boy passed by, headed in the opposite direction. Normally, I would probably barely register someone just walking by me, but there was something unusual this time. It wasn't the way the boy looked or the way he dressed. He didn't have any unusual markings. His face wasn't pierced and he didn't have a strange way of walking. He was just a normal looking teenage boy, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. However, he was carrying an oatmeal box tucked into the bent crook of his arm.

Now, carrying an oatmeal box isn't terribly strange, you might think. Certainly if the boy was coming out of a supermarket or convenience store or at least walking somewhere in the vicinty of one, then I probably wouldn't have become curious about it. But we were walking in a strictly residential neighborhood filled with nothing but single family or two-family houses. No stores anywhere nearby. And yet here he was, with an oatmeal box.

I couldn't help but be curious. Where was he going with an oatmeal box? It seemed unlikely someone had invited him over for breakfast. Usually someone doesn't call up with an invitation along the lines of "Gee, I'd love to have you over for breakfast tomorrow morning. But, one thing, will you bring the oatmeal?" Maybe he was part of some oatmeal taste test and was on his way to prove once and for all that Quaker Oats makes one damn good oatmeal. Or maybe the oatmeal inside the box had been replaced by some hidden treasure that he wanted to make sure stayed protected.

To add to the mystery, just a few hundred feet after the boy and I passed each other putting me into this oatmeal box quandary, I passed a teenage girl. She was sitting on the front steps of a house, looking towards the teenage boy as he walked away. She was crying, and crying hard. Clearly heartbroken, although I wasn't sure if the great love she had just lost was for the boy or for the oatmeal.

For several blocks I wondered exactly what role the oatmeal had played in this. Had the girl, suffering from some apparently deluded idea that the boy deeply and truly loved her, demanded he choose once and for all between her and the oatmeal and then, well, she lost? Or had the boy, in a desperate attempt to make the girl face up to a shattering oatmeal addiction staged an intervention and then whisked the offending oatmeal away where she could no longer indulge? Or maybe the boy, deeply wounded by the girl having found someone else, decided the one way to make her hurt as much as he did, was to take away her cherished breakfast food of choice.

Whatever the reason for this oatmeal box incident, it was difficult to not stop and say something to the girl who was clearly hurting. But how do you explain to a teenager that getting your heart broken from time to time is the way it's supposed to go? Every time a relationship goes wrong you learn what you want and what you don't. Every relationship's end, every broken heart leads you, eventually, to someplace better. Sometimes, that "better" is a relationship that works. Sometimes, it's gaining the understanding that you can stand on your own two feet, just fine. And sometimes, you find that on your own two feet is a better place to be.

There's a whole world out there, I would have liked to have said. And it's filled with other boys, other relationships and lots of other breakfast foods.

Over the past few days, when the curious oatmeal box incident pops into my head, I wonder what happened to that girl. My hope is shortly after I walked by, she got up, got the keys to the car and went to buy herself the biggest box of oatmeal she could find. And I hope she's enjoying every bite.