Friday, May 11, 2007

50 Ex-dates

I ‘m a serial dater.

I have a pattern of going out with the same kind of guy over and over again. It’s become a habit. I can pick them out with sickening precision that only other serial daters like me would understand. They were always the Bad Boys, the players with commitment issues, the ones with no future. It was easy to weed them out – if he was someone that I wouldn’t consider bringing home to meet Kiddo, he was someone I should date.

I approached each new victim with a methodology that was almost procedural. First, I would declare the existence of Kiddo. If unfazed by this revelation, the usual charms of flirtatious laughter, projected attentiveness and witty retorts -- would be employed to enchant and lure. Questions about Kiddo’s origin would inevitably follow. This was my cue to whip out the maiming tools that I always had handy. Bit by bit would come the disclosure of Kiddo’s Father and my legally intact matrimonial affiliation to him, the overly protective (or possessive, depending on whose side you're taking) gay boyfriends, my sporadic availability due to work and close friends, on top of the 5 year old who demanded my time.

Some would bravely try slathering on the compliments unaware that it was not me, but maybe Kiddo who had a deficiency when it came to attention. They talked too much and asked too many questions. (If I wanted to talk about my ‘feelings’, I would go out with a therapist, or go on a retreat).

Knowing that each already had a timetable, a pre-determined expiration date, I learned how to predict the telltale signs of waning interest. That would be start of their demise. I’d start preparing to add them (using their designated code name, of course) to my collection of ex-dates.

In a sadistic way, it was addicting to strategize how to capture their interest, see how long they would last and watch as they would gradually fade away or simply run. It was like clockwork.

Eventually, I got tired of the hunt, the subsequent entrapment and final kill. It was doing the same thing over and over again without really achieving anything. I envied the real serial killers, my equivalent in the criminal world, who were not only precise, but purposeful.

In an effort to mend my erring ways, I ventured out on a date with a new victim. He didn’t even flinch after getting a glimpse of my double life and all of its complications. Not even the most lethal of the maiming tools - my own Mean Girl streak - seemed to inflict the least bit of pain.

I found myself in unfamiliar territory when he outlived the usual shelf - life even after all that. It left me unguarded, exposed and...transparent -- like I was the victim. It was the most terrifying 5 minutes of my life. I wanted to bolt.

But thinking about the debt I had to re-pay society for my past transgressions, I thought it was time to hang up the baggage that marked my serial dating ways and do the unthinkable...go with the flow and just let things happen. I was told that it is what normal human beings who go out on dates do.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as calling myself a reformed serial dater. Maybe just a slowly recovering one who is ready to rejoin society, as she no longer poses a threat to it…or to herself.