The Dating Politic

Today i offer you a piece I wrote a while back (pandemic era) that has never been published. 

Since, I have found, met, and entwined my life with a beautiful man who thinks a bit like me and has a much better sense of humor. The years waiting for him were long and arduous and politics became a vett. Everyone  was eventually measured on their political leanings.

“I can’t believe you let politics affect your romantic life,” men would say, as if that was a bad thing. 

“I can’t believe you DON’T!,” I replied, unable to separate vote from values. 

If you are T-leaning, you clearly want things that I don’t. 

This is a litmus test I will never deactivate. 

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As a single, CIS woman, I have been a veteran of dating sites and testimony to the failure of digitized union. Ghosting is real. Perversion is plenty. Mind games are par for the course. Deception is expected (often followed by delusion), and disappointment eternal. Chemistry — scarce.

That said, my profile was up on Match.com as COVID commenced.

Having worked from home most of my adult life, changes were minimal for me, except that part where the grocery retailer I wrote for (Giant Eagle) put me on the phone 8 hours a day to walk people through our new curbside delivery initiative.

Unfortunately, GE failed operationally on so many unspeakable levels. Try explaining organic substitutions to 80-year-old, computer-illiterate Eddie who simply wants to get his Black Forest ham sans dying.

I went nowhere, saw no-one ,and still perused the dating site, but with little intent. Months and then there was one — one man who serves as the defining moment of just how lonely I had become. How powerful the Covid politic is.

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Let’s call him Jared. He was extremely sexy (a rarity unto itself) and smart, as I gathered from our texts. He owned his own construction business and dressed with quiet style. He had piercing blue eyes, oh, cheekbones …. He was my age, divorced, and didn’t live very far away (bonus).

We made plans to meet. That day, while I was running, he texted me to tell me how excited he was. And for once, I was, too. That anticipatory feeling had disappeared so long ago. I was shocked — and delighted — to have it back.

I dressed in form-fitting jeans, my signature platform Steve Madden sandals, and a loose tank top. Hair messy, a touch of makeup, a splash of Cool Water cologne.

When he arrived (yes, I actually invited hm to my house on the premise that we would sit out on the deck — pandemic be damned), he wore a loose, white button-down over a tan chest, distressed blue jeans and crisp, brown shoes. His hair was just a bit wavy and casual. Short, but not too. He smelled clean like the wind. He brought vodka.

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After the token awkward hellos and smiles, we sat down outside under the umbrella. I poured myself a drink. He had water and said he would wait a bit. A bit was all it took for us to realize 1) the sexual tension was tangible, unflinching, hot. 2) Covid/politics would be our demise. Not because we were concerned about giving it to/getting it from one another (that ship had sailed), but because we sat on two opposite sides.

His frustration mounted as he spoke. He was losing men/labor/accounts because his employees didn’t want to come to work. He was losing jobs.

I said something about life being more important than money. He said something about percentages, and being able to accept a negligible death rate (more like flu, he insisted) to keep business going.

A negligible death rate.

•

We concluded it was best if he left, and neither one of us apologized.

I could feel the sadness and anger well up in me like a bitter child. I told myself this was actually a great litmus test and I wouldn’t want to be with someone who thought like that anyways. I stared at his shoulders, his hands …

Before he left, and to my surprise, he kissed me. Long and soft and hard and intense. I let him. I let me. And then he turned to walk down the stairs. What to do?

There was nothing to do, but watch him walk away and begin the long evening ahead.