I decided to try dating.
A cursed idea, in retrospect.

The problem was I had almost no experience. I didn’t know the rules. Or the order of operations. Or whether there were rules, or if everyone else had just agreed not to tell me.

Dating seemed complicated and alien—like those whacky bird dances on National Geographic. All head-bobbing and chest-puffing and eye contact that means something. No one taught me that dance. I had no genetic instinct to fall back on. My ancestors clearly survived by avoiding courtship.

I tried flirting with a few guys, hoping one of them would take the initiative. Either they were immune to my advances due to my ridiculous delivery, or they weren’t interested and were politely pretending not to notice.

I chose to believe it was the former.

The first guy who actually picked up what I was putting down was Seth. Fedora-wearing, pizza-party-orgy Seth.

Yes. I know. Judge me. I deserve it.

Unfortunately, Seth interpreted my signals as a request to skip directly to sex. But—small victories—he kissed me without coating my entire face in saliva, so already an improvement over my last partner.

I also knew Seth was sexually active, which was more information than I had about anyone else in my social circle.

Deb, my old boss at Sally’s, swore that the key to finding a good partner in bed was finding a good partner on the dance floor. Seth and I danced well together, so clearly science demanded we test her theory.

The results were… acceptable.

Then a girl I had very specifically pulled aside before asking him out—just to check—turned out to be pregnant with his child.

She confronted me. Furious.

I stood my ground.

One: you lied to me. You said nothing was going on between you two and gave me your blessing.
Two: he lied to me. He said he wasn’t seeing anyone.

Later, his defense was that he thought I wanted him to lie to me.

An interesting legal strategy.

I walked away with my dignity intact and my expectations in hell.

Next up was Troy. A flooring contractor at RC Willey. He looked like Jesus.

Not historical Jesus.
Republican Jesus.

Tall. Trim. Long dark-blond hair. Blue eyes. The kind of Jesus people stop to stare at in Walmart. Yelling “Oh God!” would have been entirely appropriate.

He stood me up once because he was getting a neck tattoo. That “DEATH METAL” text across his Adam’s apple really helped break the god illusion.

It officially ended when I was waiting for him to pick me up—again—and he texted, “Oh, I moved to San Diego.”

The very next man I started seeing stood me up and texted, “Sorry about that, I moved to Kansas.”

Men were migrating without warning. At this point, I started to suspect men were being issued emergency evacuation orders I wasn’t cleared to see.

It was not going well.

I was doing everything right. Asking questions. Being polite. Going on normal dates.

So, I expanded my dating pool by signing up for a dating website. Because clearly the problem was scale.

I met a guy who had also just left the church. Great first date. He asked me out again and said we were going to a party in Ogden.

Ogden was a drive. And maybe not the smartest idea to get in a car with a man I barely knew.

But I did.

On the way, we picked up another friend of his. A woman. I made polite, awkward small talk for an hour like a champion.

We arrived.

Then the two of them disappeared.

I sat in the kitchen chatting with several men I didn’t know. All significantly older. All very friendly. One by one, people paired off and drifted toward the back of the house.

That’s when I started actually paying attention.

Oh.

It was a swinger party.

Yes, technically that’s on me for not asking clarifying questions—but also, a heads-up would’ve been nice.

This was pre-Uber, and I was absolutely not calling my dad to pick me up from a sex party. So, I waited until my date resurfaced and asked to go home.

The woman we’d driven up with—who was probably the actual date, and I was just the offering to get us in—was completely plastered.

I spent the ride home with her head in my lap, praying she wouldn’t throw up on my shoes and wondering how this had become my life.

This was not the first time I realized I had misunderstood the assignment. It would not be the last.

I got frustrated and turned off my dating profile.

I called Skylar—the guy from my first cursed date at the Garden of Olives—and updated him on my life, my dating, and my progress toward becoming a heathen. He offered to teach me how to drink alcohol properly.

Sure. Why not.

We reviewed the rules. Don’t break the seal. Drink water. Pay attention to how you feel. I took actual pen-and-paper notes like this was a lab.

I woke up naked in the bathtub.

Skylar was gone. The cats were inside.

I sincerely hoped the order of events was: Skylar left → cats let in → clothes removed → bathtub entered.

But there is no way to know.

I did, however, discover exactly where my limit was.

And I stayed very far away from it after that.

Skylar also helped me experiment in other rebellious directions, which is how I learned there are some things I do not enjoy smoking.

I decided maybe I was subconsciously picking the wrong men.

So, I turned my dating profile back on.

And just to be safe, I cast a very wide net. I started saying yes to everyone. To everything. How else was I supposed to know?

Turns out, there were many things I didn’t like.

Mostly, I didn’t like being lied to—which seemed to be everyone’s favorite hobby.

And I really didn’t like negging.

One guy helped himself to my bourbon—a beautiful bottle that had cost me eighty dollars. He poured a sixteen-ounce glass like it was Diet Coke, took one sip, dumped it down the sink, and told me I had terrible taste.

I kicked him out.

I hope he felt very superior sitting on his ass in the driveway.

Another guy invited me over for dinner. The plan turned out to be making an absurd number of chicken wings. Piles of them. Like he was feeding an army.

Eventually he admitted we were meal-prepping.

For his other dates that week.

I went home before dinner was done.

I was saying yes. Giving people chances. Being open-minded.

But how open-minded did I have to be?

A guy came into the office to trap a bat in the ceiling. He asked me out. Fine. Why not.

At dinner he casually mentioned his wife would be upset to learn he was there with such a lovely young lady.

Ex-wife?
No. Current wife.

I stood up and left.

Another date—I told coworkers where I was going in case I got kidnapped. A fellow cashier asked to see his profile.

It was her cousin.

Her married cousin.

Whose wife had just had a baby and was still in the hospital.

Of course, I didn’t go out with him—but I did post about it on Facebook, and his large Tongan sisters threatened to kick my ass for being the other woman.

I DIDN’T KNOW.

I turned off my dating profile.

I didn’t know if I was even looking for love anymore—just someone who was honest.

Be careful what you ask for.

One of Alan’s coworkers asked me out. Okay. Why not.

We went to my favorite Thai restaurant, where he loudly discussed things that should not be discussed loudly in polite company. I kept shushing him while the family at the next table shot me death glares.

We left before getting kicked out, and I was relieved.

Briefly.

He got on the freeway and headed the opposite direction from my house.

When I told him, he said, “I know. I’m just really nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.”

Also, he had just smoked salvia and was trying to calm down.

Excellent choice. Hallucinogens and freeway driving. I feel great about this.

I finally convinced him to pull over. I thought the worst was over.

It was not.

He explained why he hadn’t dated in a long time. He’d gone on a mission, and shortly after returning, he’d been left alone with his twelve- or thirteen-year-old niece.

He said she had been “flirting” with him. Sitting on his lap. “Asking for it”.

He had just gotten out of prison for molesting her.

This man was completely insane.

But at least he was honest about it.

I was sitting in his car, pulled over on a dark side street, wondering if I was “asking for it” now.

I murmured soothing noises. Agreed vaguely about the harshness of the justice system. Suggested overthrowing the government. Did whatever it took to get him to drive me home.

The second he stopped at the curb, I jumped out with a cheerful “Good night!” ran inside, locked the door, and shut off the porch light—just in case he thought this was headed somewhere else.

I should have given up dating right then. Thrown up the white flag.

Instead, I paid for three months on another dating site.

There was no winning.

If you didn’t sleep with them, they stopped calling—you weren’t worth their time. If you did sleep with them, they stopped calling—because they’d already gotten what they wanted.

It felt like an endless parade of men lying and manipulating.

And eventually I thought—

If no one else was playing by the rules…

Maybe there were no rules.

Or maybe they were only for people like me.

Suckers.