Essay: Woman in the dating pool

On empathy and earthworms

The final time my ex and I sleep together, I accidentally call him dad instead of daddy. It’s my first time trying out the term and all I can squeak out is one timid dad before my voice cracks. Two days later, we split. It’s okay, I tell him. You’re not my real dad, anyway.

“Dad” and I have been dating casually for several months. He’s a musician and, like every other man in Portland, is self-proclaimed avoidantly attached (but self-aware)! We want it to work even though we both know it won’t. He stays out until 2 am. I religiously need eight hours of sleep. He likes music festivals. I like bookstores. He has children, and I have lots of opinions on how to raise them. 

We both like our lives. And we don’t want them to change.  

@wanderfulcamille

I’ve now nearly been married 3 times over, so statistically there’s a good chance I’m the problem. Each time I've gotten close to tying the knot, my anxiety kicks on like a creaky radiator. I don’t know why I can’t settle into love. Lie down! I command my heart, but it just blinks at me like a deaf dog and wags its tail. 

The thing is—I don’t regret ending any of my almost-marriages. Every time I left a man I couldn’t marry, I evolved in the most glorious, unexpected way. I bought a house, birthed a business, wrote a book, then built a dream life that allows me to travel, write, speak, and teach.

What makes marriage unattractive is that I don’t see many models of happy ones. Depressingly, I don’t often witness men truly improving women’s lives. I’m constantly filled with fear that loving a man might cost me the life I’ve built. Basically, I’m scared I’ll disappear. 

The model of marriage I witness often results in the woman doing most of the care-giving, regardless of her profession. Not just for any children in the relationship, but eventually for the man himself, especially as he ages. As a kid, I never questioned the way my mother took care of every detail of the home—our meals, education, emotional lives, vacations, and sleep schedules. Her work was so integrated in the practice of love, I grew up thinking this kind of gendered service was, in fact, love’s only definition.

So now, I’m 38 and still in the dating pool, but most days I’m not sure what I’m looking for. All I know is I’m tired of being here—a lot of women are. Straight single women tell me often that they find their dates to be passive, avoidant, non-committal. It’s challenging to meet male-identifying partners who are educated, emotionally intelligent, and mentally and financially stable.

Just last night, I went out with a 44-year-old man who, three minutes into the date, told me was a professional juggler who performs in a chicken costume and still lives in his mother’s garage. I had loads of empathy and respect for him, but there is no world in which I could consider sharing his circus.

Alarmingly, the trouble in dating goes beyond the stereotypical woes of perceived gender differences. Recent research show intensifying rates of substance addiction, unemployment, and suicide among men. In addition, boys are falling behind in school and are far less likely to graduate college. They’re struggling with self-esteem and in the role of fathering. Most insidiously, the rise of far-right nationalism blames this crisis on feminism and galvanizes men toward extremism. 

As a feminist and a woman, it’s painful to have to thread the needle between my intense frustration with men, my desire to partner, and my deep compassion for the clear crisis men are obviously experiencing.

Part of me wants to say: Look dudes, you ruined the revolution. You fix it. Another part is devastated to learn that a recent medical study found that the the top two words men used when attempting suicide to describe themselves were useless and worthless.

So now, during a date, the questions that haunt me: Is equitable partnership ever possible? Will my compassion one day be weaponized against me? Most urgently: What will be left of my heart if I keep on keeping on like this?

Recently, a reader on Instagram asked me how I keep dating without getting discouraged. The short answer is that I don’t. I’m deeply discouraged all the time. I drag myself out on first dates and hype myself up to re-download the apps.

But my reality is that despite patriarchy, and despite the hundreds of bad dates, and despite the crisis that is both men in the U.S. (and the actual United States), I still hopelessly believe in love.

I don’t say love is real flippantly. I say it because I’m convinced of it. My last partner, the one before “Dad,” loved me so well, it’s as if he grew me a new heart, a second, more resilient one much like the multi-hearted earthworm. A heart covered in dirt but one that still ultimately believes that good men exist and that love is really fucking possible.

So I’m still out here, hoping somebody will match my freak, read my poems, share my bed, love my dreams, be my daddy, and won’t dim the light on what we like to call this “one wild and precious life.”

Tell me your thoughts. I would love to read them. See you in the comments.

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