It’s Saturday and you’re dressing for a blind date, who is to arrive in ten minutes. You’re wishing that you were spending the night watching old Fred and Ginger videos with a bottle of Chard rather than meeting Jason Johnson at Starbucks and splitting the check. His very name, Jason, annoys you. His voice sounds whiney on the phone, which annoys you bigtime. Starbucks annoys you. Splitting the check annoys the hell out of you.
It’s Sunday and you liked Jason. Not whiney at all-talented and sweet. He liked you, too,. It was a miracle of nice connection. Yes, you split the check, but he allowed as how he’d like to ask you out on a real date-like, a DATE date-and gave you reason to believe it would be real soon.
It’s Monday and he hasn’t called.
It’s Wednesday–today–and he hasn’t called and what was that “On our first REAL date, we’ll do things differently ” stuff all about? What happened? Did you imagine the evening? Is Jason Johnson alive? Who WAS that masked man?
You are aware that five days ago you didn’t know this Jason person was alive, and didn’t care. Now, although you are a sane, strong, competent woman, you have a stomachache because he hasn’t called. You are back to high school. You are awash in courtship anxiety.
As kanyone how she survived the beginning of courtship and she’ll shake her head in wonderment; it will have become a blur; she will remember only that somehow, amidst raging anxiety, she made it through and miraculously wound up in love with the guy and here they are, together. She will say that she was conned into believing that dating was a fun thing–and that it’s actually, when you like the guy, more like an illness.
Meanwhile, the Jason problem. The reason you feel this way–ill– is that you have been thrust into a passive role. You are waiting for him to call–the oldest, most traditional, most Jane Austen of roles–and it has taken every inch of power away, whether you’re 22 or 68. For the first time, you know how your grandmother felt. Or Elizabeth Bennet when she realized she loved Mr. Darcy. Or Jane Bennet when she realized she loved Mr. Bingley. Feminism is useless now. Dating has not responded one iota to the imperatives of gender equality: you cannot call this guy and you know it. Well, you CAN, ofl course, and some people will tell you to. But I won’t. Because if he says, “I’ve been busy but was just about to call you,” it’s all swell and the call was a success. But if he leaves it at the “I’ve been busy” part and doesn’t pick up a cue about getting together again, it’s over. Over. You have boxed yourself into an even less powerful position than you occupied before, because you get to call him only once, and you’ve just done it.
The anxiety that is so out of proportion to the situation (you met this guy once) is, of course, a variation on the separation anxiety you felt as a child when your mom, for whatever reason, withdrew. The situation is different, but the helplessness feels the same. And since this topic needs more space than I realized, I’ll leave it right there for now…..but only till tomorrow, Thursday. I have lots to say on this, so sit tight and don’t call him and we’ll deal with the anxiety. I promise.
