Wednesday, February 4, 1998
Relationship ‘rules’ will not solve matchmaking woes
MEDIA: From awkward pauses to sudden outbursts, no one can
master unpredictable art of courtship
By Amy Turner
In a frilly and crumpled homage to the upcoming St. Valentine’s
Day, I’d like to hold today’s mating practices up to the mood
lighting.
This country has a mild obsession regarding what is proper on a
first date. Look at the titles the mega book/coffee/music
establishments are pushing: "The Rules," "The Seduction Mystique"
and the whole Mars and Venus series.
Of course dating stinks; these interactions can be confusing,
silly and oftentimes as boring as freeway gridlock. And like
traffic, there is fluctuation and a destination (sometimes the cars
dissipate when you’re en route to Disneyland and sometimes there is
a four-car pileup on your way to dinner at Aunt Sally’s, home of
the famous enchilada paste.) The only thing to do is be
patient.
Nobody can control freeway conditions or relationships. I’m
grossed out by all of these ’90s pseudopsychoprimitive relationship
manuals selling Sig Alerts applicable to every route.
There’s a different report every hour. In fact, this feeling has
gone beyond being grossed out and has mutated into fear. Like I
know that I’m going to break one of "The Rules." I haven’t read
them, but I’ve been told they set up a formulated grown-up version
of what the appropriate steps are in the choreography of first
base, second base, panties on the rearview mirror. "The Rules"
include some flirting techniques, when and when not to call, and a
mission statement for every self-respecting, goal-oriented woman
and tips on how to laugh at all of his mildly witty jokes. I feel
like if I don’t obey "The Rules," someone is going to arrest and
sentence me to wearing a vacant smile and a Wonderbra for up to a
year.
I mean, these are "The Rules," right? Actually, I know not what
I speak, as I haven’t read "The Rules" (and I’ve been known to wear
a Wonderbra of my own volition). I’ve just gotten sucked into a
number of talk shows, conversations and magazine articles regarding
them. One mystery is exactly what makes the authors such
authorities on the art of the snare-and-trap tactics they promote.
Have they been wooed and successfully wooed a million times over?
Why did they hone themselves into man-eating machines? Why don’t
they have other hobbies? What I really can’t understand is why
anybody wants to learn how to trap anything. (Then again I’m one of
those annoying anti-fur vegetarians determined to ruin every
Thanksgiving by serving a tofu-nut loaf.)
First dates are undeniably tough. Tough enough to warrant
generic instructions about how to kiss and conquer? I doubt it.
Personally, I don’t wish for a book full of answers. For me it is
something far more elaborate. I think we should all carry around
some device equivalent to the plastic dog-poop carrying bag that
all dog walkers are legally required to carry. Maybe a tool
developed to pick up all the feces that starts coming out of our
mouths and winds up littering the environment in moments of
anxiety. So I would need a Hefty bag. I could scoop all the "No
(insert name of gentleman caller), I really like (insert the title
of any movie about domestic pets, glasses of domestic beer or
fantasies involving our future domestic bliss) comments into an
easily disposable sack. If those items seem arbitrary, I assure
you, they are not. I once went out with a guy who had a thing for
dog movies (you probably don’t realize that there is an audience
for films like "Beethoven"). I went out with a guy who poured
Natural Light into a frosted mug kept in the freezer with epicurean
bravado ( I think I was supposed to ooh and ahh) and I have gone
out with a few too many
let’s-talk-about-what-we’ll-name-the-kids-before-we-order-dinner
kind of guys. (Note: if it is not clear to you that this is a
freaky manipulator determined to hump and run, maybe you should
stick to group dates or join a sewing circle). Back to the verbal
pooper-scooper – because I tend to not only egg on the dummies I’m
dating, I sometimes think my date is not a dummy, and that’s when
it gets really cluttered, verging on putrid. When he says "So, have
you ever looked at Zolar’s Astrological Love guide?" And I blurt
out "YES! I mean, I know that your birthday falls into the sign of
Leo and me being an Aries, we have a potentially volcanic physical
relationship" before I realize that he is kidding, and he is now
frightened and disturbed by my research in our galactic hormonal
possibilities. I really wish I could pick something like that up
and throw it out. There would be dump sites all over the Earth
(highest populated cities being Washington D.C., with Los Angeles
coming in a close second) full of things like "It’s not you, I’m
just tired" and "money won’t make you happy." All of these
sentences, sort of audible in their own plastic encasements,
angling into one another. "Sex before marriage is damnation and no
fun at all" poking into a limp "only loose girls wear short skirts
and eye makeup".
I guess I think it would be cool to let the crap get tangible so
at least it could get thrown out. Especially in those intimate
situations in which case the crap usually levitates and remains
hovering between you and your mate with the climate growing more
and more foul, because nobody can make a real effort to throw it
out.
Worse than the neurotic dinner conversation (usually drowned by
waves of overt sexual tension or thinly disguised disinterest, both
of which lead to uneasy silences and ungraceful interjections),
worse than the moment when one goes to the bathroom only to find
pepper in the front bicuspid, worse than hearing about his mother’s
fascinating gallstone episodes, is the front door moment. I tremble
because if it’s been lousy then I have to evaporate with composure,
and if it’s been fun and his lips should be hung in the Met then
I’m in trouble. Most women (give or take a dominatrix or two) want
to go slow, want it to be perfect and honest and fairy tale-ish,
want the offensively oversimplified cliches we were raised on and
lust to merge into something respectable.
Most of us are terribly scarred and deformed by experiences from
relationships past – Sunday school, overbearing finger-wagging
mothers, and those "Rules" everybody keeps talking about. I don’t
know any women who have remained unscathed by these elements, but
maybe there are some. Maybe they should write a book. This terrain
is foggy, and it seems we’ve reached a point of desperation. People
are selling millions of play-by-play guides to coach the frigid and
the faltering. I just heard that the Rambo-dating authoress team
has published "The Rules II". Back at the front door, there are
fewer hurdles to maneuver when bidding adieu to the unlucky
contestant who wears a mullet, a Members-Only jacket, and spends
three hours giving a dissertation on his ex and her inability to
accept his need for Dungeons and Dragons night and libertine sexual
policies. As a friend has often said: "Cut deep, leave early."
Things get weird when you actually like the person. My approach
involves involuntarily morphing into hypersensitive girl. This is
bad. This is often misconstrued. This is insecurity at its best,
and I don’t think "The Rules" can help.
These books are selling simply because fear sells (enrollment in
karate classes and the sale of hand guns went up when Richard
Ramirez was at large). Everybody’s afraid to be intimate. Being
vulnerable is a whole lot harder than being coy and turning down
any invitation not made 48 hours in advance. Take your $14.95 and
get yourself a cat at the animal shelter if you want to learn how
to trap something.
I say phooey to anybody’s "rules." Flail about in anticipation,
embrace the giddy nervousness, say the first thing that comes into
your head – there are no verbal pooper scoopers.
Besides, the first thing that comes into your head may not
flaunt razor-sharp wit,but it’s probably the truth and the scooper
was really engineered to pick up the compromised bullshit that
flies from the mouth when seeking approval.Turner is a big Elvis
fan who is looking for a ride to Memphis in June.