PASSING FOR NORMAL

Meet you for a drink, a culture, a life?



Excuse my poor little attempt to recap on a topic that I do not grasp the first thing about. I did not go to seminars about it and sure did not read guidelines for it. I am not talking about love, I am talking about dating. The business that had launched carriers, made hits out of idiotic shows, sold books, yet left many of us clueless. I also do not want to talk about dating games and rules. For the mere reason that I am not aware of these rules. I usually am a straightforward person. I express my likes and dislikes and keep the other party updated.

In light of a conversation with a friend today and in response to people who mislabel one’s vulnerability and excitement towards the matters of heart as immature attempts to relive one’s adolescence, I think back. After a decade (man I’m old) of trial and error, I am still hopeful and still looking. It amazes me that we still do. After years of disappointments and thousands spent on drinks and fashion and trips, we still go back as troopers and still put ourselves out there with the same excitement of a ‘teenager’.

I used to think that I had it figured out. When you throw yourself into the dating arena in an environment that you have grown familiar with, you cannot go wrong, at least not at the beginning. You have a decent assessment of the other person’s character. Through preliminary questioning, you can formulate an idea of the person’s background and the values he was brought up on. You can anticipate his reactions and prejudices. You can evaluate his ability to care and give and love and hate. You have an intuition about his expectations, dreams and ambitions.

This, in fact, might still be true. Having said that, what is the palette in hand of a person who ventured out of that safe, predictable environment? Let me give you some examples. I met a French guy in Paris. We clicked immediately. Swinging at the Monte Cristo and melting to his voice and his lovely words over coup-de-foudres at the Café des Arcades. Lovely. He sang Georges Brassins songs and kept on complementing me. Fine. He lived in a world of dreams and would not stop singing. Had to go.

An American.. I was willing to learn. We met on September 11 (I still did not foresee the problem there). We studied together, watched SNL and he liked to cook for me. Divine. He had too many girl buddies, liked to bake and would not leave the apartment. Fine. His teasing words about my culture turned into heated discussions. He added the suffix Witz to my name at my doorbell and he hated cats. He dressed up as a woman for Halloween. He drank buds and smoked pot all the time. Had to go.

The German. We met at Zum Shneider during Oktoberfest over a pitcher of Hefeweizen. He previously was an accomplished full-blown surgeon in Switzerland. Rough around the edges but handsome and a great dancer. I was happy. He had a temper, hated my smoking. While he was training for the marathon, got edgier and colder. Still acceptable. He expressed a genuine hate for the non-German race, disliked my friends and style of fashion. He also had a wandering eye. Had to go.

The Canadian business man. A slightly older gentleman who was very busy and who ran his company from Canada. We met over steak and wine. I liked him. He was very reserved and called me his gentle lady. I liked to be pampered for a while. He brought me cigars and chocolate. We met in town like secret lovers. I was enchanted. His schedule got tighter and his ill-spirit surfaced. Alright. After a month, I inevitably ask him why he was not married still. It turns out that he was. Had to go.

The Lebanese politician. Summer vacation and an evening with friends. We spotted each other across the room. I was introduced to him. He picks me up and we go to dinner. Lebanese meza and a bottle of Arak. He wanted to give me the world. I did not want any of that. I liked his attitude and his vision. He started to show off. He did not need to do that. He got me gifts and told me stories about London and the playboy mansion. I did not like the facade. He cursed his ex-fiancee and attacked Rafik Hariri. He had to go.

...The Russian? Screwdrivers at Pravda and Tchaikovsky
The Moroccan sailor? Café Espagnol and Sangrias
Egyptians? Don’t get me started on the Egyptians...

I feel exhausted writing about it!
Still clueless? I feel the same. No regrets. Throughout all of it though, do not give up on love. We get more particular and more ‘picky’. Nothing wrong with that, otherwise what was the point of the journey. We’re not as stern as we’re made to believe. We do compromise when compromise is due and when the person is worth working for and working with.

Do not lose your childhood excitement,
at least not yet.