| Dating follies lead to new outlook on men | | Print | |
| Written by Weina Zhao | |
|
I have never had a steady boyfriend. Throughout high school, I watched my friends hold relationships with funny guys, nice guys, smart guys and too often complete meatheads. My dating record, on the other hand, has been erratic, sporadic and mildly amusing, paralleling the likes (and almost literally carrying out the title) of 50 First Dates.
Most of my sophomoric blunders were fueled by a strong curiosity for the mysterious. I blame the media for instilling unrealistic visions of relationships and how they start. The heroines of Gossip Girl consistently bump into skinny, dramatic Beat-era poets, herb-obsessed, dreadlocked Rastafarians and preppy, tan Lacrosse players in random nooks and crannies in the city. I wanted a similar adventure. While downtown with a group of friends, I struck up a conversation with an interesting guy. He was a track-star from Nebraska, new to the city and in need of friends. He had a small-town charm, worked at Abercrombie and Fitch and was ridiculously good-looking — I figured I could spare some time. The night started out well. We went ice-skating at the Embarcadero Center and to a movie at the Metreon. I was surprised to start a conversation with him about fashion. We gossiped about the latest colors and trends, favorite designers, and played the game “Chanel or Dior?” “Ruehl or Hollister?” “Oakley or Quiksilver?” As he continued to impress me with his extensive knowledge of fashion, his major at the Art Institute, and repeated invites to work out at 24-hour-fitness, a signal should have been going off in my mind. But I was as oblivious as ever, the switch in my head refusing to budge until he announced his plans to go to a gay bar later on that night. I constantly ask myself, ‘how did I not see that coming?’ but I guess my naïve 16-year-old mind practiced selective acknowledgement. Just as short-term memory impairs Drew Barrymore’s character in 50 First Dates from remembering past experiences, I stepped into my second experience with as much oblivion as the first. With a brash mindset, I started up something with a guy I had only gotten to know over the Internet. He played golf, he was polite, and from the minimal information he had on Facebook, I was certain I had grasped what kind of person he was. I developed a fatty crush, mainly attracted to the fact that none of my friends knew him, and he didn’t know them. This mystery drew me in, leading me and my best friend to his party in Berkeley. From there began my Alice-in-Wonderland experience. I found myself spiraling down a chute of surrealness, the epitome of which consisted of hiding a car in the bushes, hopping over a metal fence and breaking into a golf course at midnight with clubs, glow-in-the-dark golf balls and an assortment of odd objects. The fun was cut short by patrolling cops. On the way back from the golf course, I found myself squeezed between three guys I didn’t know in the backseat of an ’85 Ford low-rider. More disappointing than the busted golf party was my realization that the guy next to me, who was intently focused on rolling a joint, was not the attractive guy I had a crush on. In fact, the city I was in, the people I was around — nothing had any semblance of familiarity. Looking back on the experience, I realize that I had put myself in a position to get more than just my expectations hurt. I can’t say I regret these experiences — they’ve been enlightening, and they sure make great anecdotes to share. My sophomoric blunders, embarrassing as they are to recollect, have made me re-evaluate my approach to dating. Sure I still find myself in exceptionally awkward situations, but I now realize “mystery” and “adventure” are overrated. I’ve revamped my search, deciding to look a little closer to home. |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
to listen.
