Dont Mince Words

I know I’ve spent the past six years bemoaning the labor of dating in Los Angeles. I’ve felt like I’ve been one part relationship anthropologist, one part therapist, and an off-and-on investigative journalist. But I know my observations and experiences aren’t far-fetched because I run into men and women everywhere that have similar stories.

I recently connected with an acquaintance from home, also in her mid-40’s, who has lived out here four years. Over lunch we compared and contrasted our dating stories.

“What happened to the old ritual of courting?” she asked. “I feel like I have one or two dates with a guy, then everything after that is a hang-out. They don’t want to do stuff or bother to get to know me.”

I followed that with my thoughts that there are not a lot of masculine men in this town. That theory was confirmed early on by Dr. Pat Allen who said a town with creative men is a town filed with effeminate men who don’t play the male role. They want to be chased… like women. That doesn’t leave us a lot left to date.

My friend also made a comment about conversation. “I learned very quickly to dial it down. I think I offended people because I would not hesitate to offer my opinion.” That made me laugh hysterically because that was one of my first lessons in a corporate environment. “God help you if you have an opinion. You have to keep everything neutral so as to not shock sensitive people,” I added. But a lot of that has to do with the fact we grew up in D.C. Everyone is smart and reads and has opinions about everything. Out here, there are a lot of people who don’t have degrees, let alone advanced degrees. So, girls like us have to dumb it down.

I proceeded to tell her that I had hit the jackpot dating and I felt like all my bad date payforwards were redeemed.

“Get this – I’m dating a guy that has had the same job for 10 years, earned a MBA, owns two cars and some property, is NOT a California native, and is divorced with a wife and kid living across the country. He plans three or four dates a week, picks me up, and doesn’t hesitate to pay,” I told her with great sarcasm.

She was amazed. “So, you have real conversations and real dates.”

Dating is a numbers game, no matter where you live. You just need to know what you want and be patient until you find it. My new friend just left for an internship back in D.C. at the Library of Congress. She’s working on her second master’s degree. She says she’s happy not dating in Los Angeles. “As long as there is good weather, that’s my company.”

I’ve revised the Kubler-Ross grief cycle to consider the emotional states of dating in Los Angeles.

Shock stage – initial paralysis after a few bad first dates and remembering someone telling you you’d have to “import” your men if you lived in Los Angeles.

Denial stage – continuing to date because you can’t believe it is really that bad out there.

Anger stage – frustrated and mad, you now date as if it is a revenge fuck. Each date gives you more writing material and you just get angrier.

Bargaining stage – seeking in vain for a way out of dating. You volunteer more and do anything for distraction.

Depression stage – dating in Los Angeles is not going to change.

Acceptance stage – moving forward by adopting a dog and revising your vibrator collection.

Last night I came to the realization that I may never get laid again. Tex and I watched “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” in bed. With each bark, he’d cock his head and stare at my 20-inch monitor while I giggled. I can’t remember the last time I laughed in bed. At this point, I’m not sure Tex would give up his spot on the queen-sized for a man. Well, maybe for a remastered version of Lady & The Tramp.

At my age, not a lot of new stuff happens to me. Admittedly, a lot of bizarre things occur when I go on dates in LA, but that falls into the bad date bucket. This weekend I had two unusual events happen to me.

The last time I wore a bikini, my age was a single digit. While visiting my 70-something Aunt, she suggested I go to water aerobics with her. I didn’t bring a suit. She went into one of her many hording closets and pulled out a bikini.

“Wow, Aunt Marna, this looks like it may be from the ‘60s and could fit,” I said.

“They don’t make them like that anymore,” she said like a typical old person.

It did, indeed fit and had those mid-boob seams that come up from the rib to the nipple to create a torpedo tit. Everything was stable and in place. I survived water aerobics and had no wardrobe malfunctions, but I may have shocked a few of the old folks with my tattoo.

On Independence day, we were driving back from a winery with the dog in the back seat. I was the last in a long line of cars hauling ass down Route 1. A cop in the opposite direction 180-ed and pulled me over. 75 in a 55. The CHiP was not amused when I said in my best F-me voice, “you know you are my first, sir” when he handed me my inaugural CA speeding ticket.

“I don’t know about that ma’am.” he replied and then walked away.

I want to believe I was his funniest and most sober traffic stop of the day. Maybe he would of laughed if I had my bikini top on?