Mine is not a rich and full dating history.
In high school, the most representative of my future dating history was, with a couple of exceptions, a group-outing to a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (it was 1978, people!) where a male friend seated next to me said in a loud voice (as the lights went down), “Damn it bitch, uncross your legs!” This was funny because the joke was (and remains) 180 degrees from the actual character of the young man who spoke it. I knew, and still know well, of his kindliness, essential decency and genuine respect for women. Otherwise, we would not have been friends for almost 45 years.) Anyway. at the time I laughed less because it was actually funny, and more because it made me a bit uncomfortable without me knowing why – I was still so young and apolitical! I wish that I had recognized the prescience in the moment’s one-liner: in retrospect, it was pretty on target as far as too-many of my then-future dates would go. I hope that times have changed; I know that they have not. Rather than describe some of the ugly, rape-y kind of dates I’ve had, I describe below my best ‘worst’ date, followed by a description of my bestest date ever! EVER!
De (“The name is an anagram.”*)
*10 points to you if you know the origin of this quote A. Hint: the source involves Steven Marcato, a coven, and is referenced in an earlier post.
De and I met somewhere – where, how or when, no idea, no recollection, no matter – and somehow I agreed to a date with him. We got in touch by phone and when contact was made, our conversation was a paean to the efficiency and the power of human expression, as partially reconstructed below:
De: What would you like to do?
J: How about a movie? There’s lots of things I’d like to see. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?
De: I don’t care. What do you want to see?
J: How about X or Y?
De: Sure. You choose.
In the end, we met up and I suggested we go to see a movie that had been on my list since I’d read Lillian Hellman’s Pentimento. “I’ve been dying to see this movie since forever!”, I gushed. Off we went.
Unfortunately, my memory – which at that time in my life enabled me to reproduce, on paper, the detailed chemical pathway of gluconeogenesis or pyrimidine synthesis with such precision, or recite speeches from Julius Caesar – failed me here, and instead of gratifying my desire to see Hellman’s The Little Foxes, I was settling into a seat next to my date to watch The Little Darlings.
The Little Foxes (1941) is a tale of avarice and gender-based power in a Southern family and features Bette Davis. Little Darlings (1980) features Kristy McNicholl and Tatum O’Neal as 15 year-old girls at summer camp who engage in a race to lose their virginity. Check out the trailer in order to be properly horrified at what happened next.
Once I realized my mistake, I was, of course, mortified, but very quickly the situation appealed to my sense of humour. “Oh my god,” I thought as the virginity-losing competition was unfolding onscreen, my date silent at my side, “this guy thinks I’ve been aching to see this movie! What must he think?!” It was not a mystery for long: as the credits rolled and the lights came up, my date looked at me with a look of faint distaste. I pretended to shrink into my seat as I said, apologetically and (I thought) comically, “I thought it was The Little Foxes…You know, by Lillian Hellman?” He had no sense of humour about the situation, and the date should have ended there.
But De and I went out for afters, whereupon he made a comment that bore a whiff of homophobia. I leapt upon it, provoked a fight and ended the date. I then went to a former housemate’s cast party for Bent which I’d seen a few days before, and I danced my ass off. I never saw De again.
Michael
When we first met in graduate school in student government, we did not particularly like each other. I thought him obnoxious because I didn’t yet ‘get’ his sense of humour; he thought me a wimp because I was quiet. We started to spend time together doing government-y things, and our mutual attraction grew though a shared enjoyment for twists of perspective and odd jokes. By the time he asked me to join him and a group of friends to see Les Miserables and then go to dinner, I agreed with alacrity.
We went with a group of fellow students, most of whom had seen Les Mis a few times already and relished a good cry (we were, after all, graduate students). We sat in the balcony where we could fully apprehend the turntable device that comprised the staging. It was nauseating (the turntable thingy) and neither Michael nor I were captivated by the performance and believe you me, I LOVE me a good musical.
Twenty minutes into the play, Michael whispered to me, “Are you enjoying this?” Fully aware that a negative response would affect his enjoyment of the performance, and because my consideration is selfless and knows no limits, I answered, “Oh, yes!” Another ten minutes passed before he whispered again, “Are you really enjoying this?” This time I whispered back, “Michael, I’m so bored that my hands are sweating..” And then the magic began…
In more than thirty years together, I have learned that to go to a play or an opera (or, god help me, to one of my children’s recitals with their peers) with Michael is to be treated to performance commentary which is, often, superior in enjoyment to the primary performance on stage. For Les Mis, the white spotlight that shone on newly-fallen victims of the nascent rebellion earned the nickname “White Light O’Death”; when a later victim failed to produce such a spotlight, Michael inferred that in order to earn the spotlight, they “had to be fresh kills”. Michael joked, I was an appreciative audience, and we were shushed by those around us despite our efforts to keep our laughter very quiet, especially as those others around us had tears streaming down their faces. Well, I was crying, too, but in the fun way. We did try.
We’ve been laughing together ever since and my gratitude is boundless. And, if you know me personally you will know that I am still very, very quiet.
I Started the Prozac In Paris 