In Which I Muse About Dating

It’s a jungle out there. That’s what I tell all my married and otherwise coupled-up friends all the time. “Be thankful you’re not out there anymore,” I say! “You’re so lucky to have found your person” I exclaim! Those are not empty sentiments, my friends. It really is a jungle out there, and I feel like I’m bushwhacking my way through it, alongside my jungle warrior sisters. It’s hot, with overgrown paths, surprising twists around every tangled corner, and things flying at me from all directions. It’s confusing, and exciting, unknown and yet thrilling. It’s also f-ing exhausting.

I have dating fatigue. I often joke that if dating were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist. And like an Olympian, though I’m technically considered an amateur (because if I were a professional, that would make me an escort), I have years of training under my belt. I went on my first date when I was 11. It was with my sister’s boyfriend’s younger brother. And by date, I mean we got dropped off at the mall (the epicenter of pubescent discovery) and wandered around together for a couple of hours. It was wintertime. I remember being hot in my heavy winter coat indoors, even with the zipper unzipped. And my boots made squishy, squeaky noises as I walked.

He scared the shit out of me. But, I was intrigued. He had soft hair, a nice smile, and wore the shit out of his Randy River pullover sweater. He was a badass. A year older than me, he was experienced, nuanced, knowledgeable. It was intoxicating. So much so that when we were touring the mall together, discussing the pressing issues of our middle school lives, I let it go when, strolling behind an elderly woman and her daughter, my older and more worldly date began poking fun of the glacieroric speed with which they were moving. I was mortified, but being in the presence of such “coolness,” I felt that I couldn’t call him out on his rude behaviour. This was a boy, a boy I was on an actual date with, an OLDER boy who seemed to be enjoying my company (and who also thought I was pretty!), so I said nothing. I had a twisted knot in my stomach the whole time. It was all I could do not to throw up on his Adidas.

And thus, my dating career had begun.

Fast forward to adult me, and I have to tell ya, there are moments when I think back to my 11 year old self and think she really had things figured out. Men confound me. I don’t pretend to understand what motivates men (or people, really) to act certain ways, or say certain things, or to generally carry out their lives certain ways. And I should clarify here, that I’m talking about single men. Bachelors. At this point in my life, in my, ahem, mid-thirties, I have clearly, for various and myriad reasons, not chosen a partner and gotten hitched….yet. I can’t speak for all women (and I wouldn’t presume to), but I will say, for me, the fact that I find myself single in the city is more a result of sub-conscious decisions I’ve made throughout my dating life to not settle than any unwillingness or closed-mindedness or (major) emotional baggage on my part.  I haven’t waited this long, put in this many hours of bad (some really, really bad) and WEIRD dates to end up with someone who is just “OK.” Nope, I’m on a quest to find someone to truly complement me (as I don’t need to be completed, thank you very much!), make me happy, treat me well, and someone who I want to share my life and (future) babies with. Not such a tall order, is it?! I just want to find my lobster, guys.

I’m at an impasse. It’s tough to meet people out in the world. Let me let you in on a little secret. People don’t meet people in grocery stores (WHAT?!). It’s true, guys. Meet-cutes don’t happen in real life! If they do, it’s very, very rare, and usually met with skepticism, if not outright fear of the creepy-stalker factor. Let’s be honest, how receptive would you really be if a someone approached you in a bookstore, or on the street and basically wouldn’t let you leave without getting your number? Creeped the f-ck out, right? Aside from my one girlfriend who met a (now ex) boyfriend on the subway (they checked each other out on their shared morning commute for months before they spoke), I don’t know anyone who didn’t meet their significant other by a more traditional means i.e. through a friend, at school, at work, in a bar or at a party. Or, most commonly now, online.

It’s hard to meet people. This is why I turned to online dating years ago. It’s a totally viable way to meet other singles, especially in a big city and for a person who has a lot of things on the go in their life (like moi!). And I’m not saying it’s bad. At all! In fact, I’ve had some very good experiences with men I’ve met online…a couple of (albeit short-lived) actual relationships, some great first dates, some even greater second and third dates, and even a couple of friendships that are still a part of my life.

However, the other side of that particular coin is that I’ve also had some of the most frustrating, confounding and straight up WEIRD experiences with men I’ve met online.

I have received at least a few marriage proposals, which I believe are mostly serious, as well as direct and unabashed sexual propositions, along the lines of “Hey baby, wanna f-ck?” (That quote there, by the way, was the sole line of content in an actual message I received). I have been asked, on more than a few occasions, as to whether or not I have beautiful feet, and if so, would I be willing to “share” them? I have been the recipient of some very lovely compliments (on my smile, my hair, my face, my witty profile, etc.), and some not so lovely compliments, if you can call them that (mostly about my ample bosom and/or posterior, and once, I’m not lying, on my “child-bearing” hips), and the various things my would-be suitors would do with/to those body parts if given the chance.

I have been propositioned to bear children for a man who took great pains to explain to me that I need to have children in order to secure my legacy in the world and that he would be willing to help me with that endeavor in either the “traditional way” or, you know, “with science.” I can’t make this shit up, guys.  You’ll be pleased (or horrified?) to know that that same man messaged me again (almost a year after the initial knock-me-up offer) with this classic one-liner: “I will give you $20,000 to be yours. I love what I see.” I was touched. And hey, twenty grand is nothing to sneeze at.

Like I said, friends, it’s a jungle out there. Actually, maybe it’s more akin to a circus, complete with sideshow freaks, occasional unpleasant sights and smells and a whole lotta smoke and mirrors. So, it’s a jungle-circus freak show. One day I’ll tell you the story of a man I encountered who I’ve nicknamed “Pork Chop.” It’s a doozie!

But, you know what? I choose to believe, in the exactly the same way I (try to) choose happiness every day, that there are good people out there. I take it all with a grain of salt. Well, maybe more like a shaker full of salt. It will all work out in the end. And if it doesn’t seem like things have worked out, then it’s not the end!

Your Dating Maverick, AP


It Ain’t Easy Being Orange

When I was about four years old, my mom lost me in a department store. She was shopping with just my brother (who was in a stroller) and I, and she let go of my hand for one second, and I was gone. Who knows what distracted me, or what prompted me to leave the safety and security of my mom’s watchful eye. But whatever it was, off I went to investigate, blissfully unaware of the magnitude of my action. I don’t know how long it was before my mom realized that I was gone – probably just minutes – but, as what I can only imagine was sheer terror setting in, she heard an announcement over the PA; “Mrs. Peters to the Information Booth please, Mrs. Nancy Peters.”

When she arrived at the Information Booth, there I was, sitting on a chair, legs swinging cheerfully, with a lollipop-filled smile, “Oh, HI Mommy!”

My mom loves to tell this story. Not as a cautionary tale about losing her kid in a big department store, but as a funny anecdote about me. Apparently, when she came to collect me from “danger,” the nice Information Booth employee said that I had told her my full name (including my middle name), my address, my phone number, and my parents’ names (other than Mommy and Daddy). I probably told her my brother’s and sisters’ names too, and my favourite book at the time and whatever else was on my mind. The point is that I was completely at ease, chatting up a storm with a stranger, not worried at all that my mom wouldn’t come get me, evidently ignorant of the fact that I was indeed, lost. I wasn’t scared or nervous, I wasn’t shy with the person who was trying to help me, I wasn’t crying, and I didn’t leap into my mother’s arms with relief when I laid my eyes on her. I was the most laid back four year old my mom had ever encountered.

Me at about four years old:

little ange

Personality is innate. Sure, our experiences, upbringing, culture, birth order, and a host of other external things help inform and influence the development of our personalities, but at the core of us, when you look at our most true and basic instincts, our personality is innate. And it doesn’t really change over time. Who I was when I was four, is essentially who I am today. That’s not to say that our behaviour doesn’t change with age and/or experience, or because we’re surrounded by people who influence us in certain ways, or our work demands it of us. But, that’s behavior, which is not the same thing as personality. The distinction is important.

I am fascinated by the study of personality. I’ve read all about various theories and studies and tests; True ColorsFacet5, Myers-Briggs, and even Love Languages (while that’s technically not about personality, per se, it’s in the same wheel house for my purposes here). The general principle of these tests is that there are basic categories of personality traits that all people are made up of. The majority of people display a distinct dominant category of traits, and perhaps a secondary category which is pretty close (in terms of score) to the dominant. And then the others sort of just fall in place kind of on a sliding scale. The terms Introvert and Extrovert, for example, come from the Myers-Briggs theory. The very idea of someone being “outgoing” or “shy,” while wildly dichotomous, is borne of these principles.

I think the reason I find all of this so fascinating is that it rings SO TRUE. The more I read about the study of personality, and talk to people (like my sister who is an Employment Counsellor and is therefore deeply acquainted with all of this even more than I am because it’s so linked to the work she does. Similarly, my best friend who is in HR, has a deep understanding of all of these things because of her work. So, you can imagine the conversations that get generated with these two lovely ladies in my life), the more my interest is piqued. And, the more apparent it becomes that I am a bit of a loner in my own life.

What the hell does that mean, Ange? Well, what I mean is that I am the different one in my life. I’m The Outlier, the one who thinks and operates just a little (sometimes a LOT) differently than the family and friends and colleagues I’m surrounded by.

Let’s take True Colors, for example. Orange is my dominant color, which means, generally speaking, that I am outgoing. I am social, talkative, expressive, I think “outside the box,” I’m interested in big concepts and talking about ideas. I tend to get excited about things, I act on intuition, I’m very passionate and I often take the lead. I am completely comfortable with public speaking and performing (actually, I kind of thrive on it!), I’m really flexible and laid back, I take risks and I don’t particularly like rules. It also means that I have a hard time focusing on things sometimes, I have a tendency to not follow through on things, I don’t like being mired in details and I fall into ruts easily. I can be messy, disorganized, fail to plan well, don’t always make good, responsible decisions, and I’m a champion procrastinator. I’m impulsive and impetuous, irresponsible even (i.e. not so great with money) and I can be really opinionated about certain things.

I believe that every member of my immediate family (we’re talking about five other people here), are predominantly Gold. Golds make lists and love details. They are extremely organized, traditional, like order and routine, thrive on making plans. They are very responsible, risk-averse, dependable, punctual, take time (sometimes a LOT of time) to make decisions, and like everything to be just so. Every year, for as long as I can remember, my dad not only actually creates a Christmas Holiday Menu, but he laminates it (yes, he owns and often uses a laminator) and puts it on the fridge. We tease him relentlessly about it, but we all secretly love it, think it’s adorable, and just SO “dad.” He does this because he likes to, but also, and more importantly, he is impelled to. It’s his Gold showing.

You can see where the inherent fissure in my life emerges. I shared a room for most of my childhood with one of my sisters (the GOLDEST of the Golds), and you can imagine how tricky (and at times, painful) that was for both of us. Her side of the room was always “spic and span” clean, her bed was made every day, everything was in its place, not a scrap of stray clothing or anything else was where it didn’t belong. My side? Not so much. I don’t think I ever made my bed. I had clothes all over the floor and everywhere else, I usually had (and still have) two or three books on the go, and of course, a journal that I was constantly misplacing. She used to get so frustrated with me about my side of the room, for lots of reasons, but the biggest one was that from the bottom of the stairs, it was my side that was visible when the door was open. Needless to say, she kept the door closed a lot.

When I decided to move to Toronto, it was definitely an impulsive decision. I had landed a job, but had no place to live and really only knew one person in the city. I didn’t really have much of a plan, but I was sure, to the depths of my being, that this was the right move, that it would change my life, and that I would be happier. I remember talking to my Dad about it (before I had actually gotten the job offer, so at this point it was just an idea, albeit, an idea I was settled on), and he said, verbatim “Ange, I don’t think this is a good idea. It’s a really big risk, and I don’t think you should do it.” It was, by the way, the best decision I’ve ever made. But you can imagine how that conversation resonated with me at the time. I just didn’t understand why my Dad didn’t get why I just HAD to do this! It was so clear to me!

My fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants life philosophy has not always been appreciated, or more to the point, understood by my family. My friends are a bit more diverse in terms of their spectrum of personality (which makes sense – I chose them, I was drawn to them in the first place, right?!), but my best friend, my BFF since we were eight years old, my true and constant, can’t-remember-my-life-without-her bestie, has quite a different personality than me. And that’s, of course, why we complement each other so well! But, I’m sure there have been times in our lives when she has seriously questioned my sanity. I’m sure she’s also been grateful that we’ve never lived nor worked together. It’s probably saved our friendship, to be honest.

My difference is even more pronounced at work. Certainly, because of the work I do, there are particular behaviours that I’ve adopted over the years that are counter to my innate personality. But at the core, when it comes to how I actually operate and perceive and interpret and understand things, I am, again, The Outlier. We did a Facet5 workshop as a team building activity, and it came as no surprise to me that I am totally different from the rest of my team. And I’m not saying that’s a bad thing! I think I bring a lot to the team, and my perspective is, for the most part, appreciated, but I struggle with it sometimes because I’m the only one like me. I often feel like no one understands me at all. Like I’m speaking a different language, like the things that come so naturally to me, and are my inherent preference in terms of work style (being flexible, going with the flow, talking about the high level concepts and collaborating in order to get excited about a project and generate creative ideas together) are lost on my teammates. Maybe that’s not true. My ways are not necessarily lost on them, but rather, it’s a stretch for them to get on the same page as me sometimes. So, I find I’m always getting on their page. It’s easier for me, I’m the flexible one, remember?!

My desk is a mess, I have papers and books stacked all around me (strategically, in my mind), dust collecting everywhere. I have sticky notes with reminders about this or that all over the place, I have lists (yes, I make lists too!), but I frequently lose them and/or forget about them. I struggle with time management, I hardly ever remember to change my daily voicemail message and I often have to take little breaks throughout the day to talk to people and socialize, otherwise I start to feel a little bit like I want to crawl out of my skin. Not every day though! Some days I’m perfectly content to listen to music all day, not say a word to anyone and just work away, in my little Ange-bubble. I’m an enigma, I know. Sigh.

What is the point of me telling you all this? Stay with me, here. My point is that although I may be The Outlier, an Orange in a sea of Gold, I have to say that knowing about these theories has truly enlightened me. I find that the more I understand myself, my innate personality (and the traits and tendencies that go along with it), the more open and accepting I am about the people around me. I consider myself a very self-aware person, and I constantly strive to be better. I also find that with this knowledge, I’m more cognizant of my comfort zone and can more easily recognize when I should step outside of it. It helps me to understand other people’s motivations and points of view, to the point where, even if someone is being really nasty to me, or is frustratingly rigid, for example, I can’t help but empathize with where they’re coming from. They’re probably a Gold-Green, and they just don’t get me, ya know??

I used to say that I found it really hard to talk to my parents, that they just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give me what I needed emotionally. Before I had the vocabulary at my fingertips, I remember explaining it to my sister that it was as if we spoke different languages. Can you imagine the motherload of epiphanies I had when I read Gary Chapman’s book? It turns out my parents and I actually DO have different Love Languages! We really were speaking different languages. As soon as I was armed with that knowledge, my relationship with my parents did a proverbial “180,” and I now know how to accept the love they give me, in their language. It’s truly remarkable.

I’m telling you, if you strive for self-awareness, hop on this train with me! Look up these theories, take the tests, read the books, and talk to your people about it! I’m not usually one for hyperbole (well, maybe I am, actually), but I promise you, it will change your life. Since absorbing this knowledge into my psyche, I actually do have a different, and I would argue, better understanding of myself and the world and people around me.

And, as it turns out, it isn’t that hard being Orange after all.

My boyfriend, Toronto

winter streetcar

So, full disclosure: I’m in a pretty serious relationship with my city. His name is Toronto. It’s a really loving, caring, supportive and thrilling relationship. Sometimes it feels like a torrid, salacious affair. Sometimes it feels like we’re in a rut, mutely watching TV together on the couch on a Wednesday night. But, that’s the way it goes in relationships, right? There are ebbs and flows, growth and stagnancy, a thick book with lots and lots of pages.

He’s a bit older, he’s definitely wiser, and he’s very steadfast. He’s also really popular, and sometimes I take a lot of pride in that, and sometimes it makes me a little jealous.  I guess because I kind of just want him to myself, ya know? Although, I have to say, when he gets a shout-out in a Drake song, I tend to get a little flush with excitement.

We’ve been together for almost 8 years, Toronto and me. When I met him, I was admittedly running away from a really bad relationship with another city, but I think, in retrospect, I was also running toward something. Sure, I tumbled into Toronto’s arms with a bit of unbridled abandon, but he caught me and scooped me up in his shielding embrace, and I’ve never looked back.

Oh, we fight sometimes, though. He makes mistakes. Big ones. Huge. Did I just invoke Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman? Yup, I sure did. He can be really infuriating, but I’m sure I can be too. But, when we’re not bickering about transit or my shitty landlord, or the amount of his constant construction that continually impedes my already terrible sense of direction, I’m mostly in awe of him. He’s pretty fantastic.

The thing I love about him most is the way he makes me look at myself. And see myself. Seeing and looking aren’t necessarily the same thing. It’s as if looking at myself through the prism of Toronto, I’ve begun to see myself differently than I ever have before. Toronto, with his expanses of beauty and culture, his wonderful little surprises hiding in unexpected places, his openness and his love of diversity, has switched a light on inside me. And that little light has illuminated the reaches of who I am. Perhaps of who I was all along.

When Toronto and I first got together, even though technically it was a rebound, like I said, I felt like I was running to something. Well, it turns out I was running to someone too – me. And that’s why we’re so good together.

I think our future is bright, indeed ♥