The Lost Art of Dating

When I was a kid, I used to eat lip balm. It was pink and lollipop flavored. It smelled like strawberries and coated my tongue with sticky sweetness when I pushed it through my lips. It even had pictures of candy on the wrapper. I don’t know what genius marketed this to kids and didn’t expect them to eat it. But every time I took a bite, it tasted horrible. It made my lips pucker and my throat sore. But I’d smell it again and go in for another taste. Still horrible. I kept going back for more, thinking maybe the next time would be different.

This was a precursor to what relationships would be like for me. So enticing, the promise of sweetness written all over them. But disappointing every time. I wanted so badly for them to taste good that I kept coming back for more, thinking maybe the next time would be different.

But they weren’t. 

Anyone who has known me long enough is aware that I am a lover, a hopeless romantic. And therein lies the problem. I love so deeply and so easily that I give the most tender pieces of my heart away like free samples at the grocery store. I’m notorious for being too forgiving, too understanding, too enamored by amour. That’s the thing about rose-colored glasses; they make all the red flags look like normal flags.

Walking through the graveyard of miserable dates, failed relationships, and awkward situationships, they all have one thing in common: me. So, I decided to remove myself for a while. How did I end up here? How did so many of us end up here? The answer, I concluded, was trauma.

Humans are hardwired for connection. We are not isolated creatures. We survive because of our community, our family, our relationships. Yet, we’re sold this fantasy that we don’t need anyone. Our basic instincts are stripped from our core, packaged, and resold to us under a hyper-individualistic model of relationships. Western culture perpetuates this idea that you alone are a unique and special individual, and everyone else is either a material asset or hindrance to your ultimate success. This doesn’t leave much room for the emotional complexity, empathy, or the spiritual nature of being human.

We didn’t choose to be born into a culture that doesn’t know how to love. (If you did, please message me so I can pick your brain about reincarnation.) Most of us are operating from the model that was laid out before us. We come from families who come from families of empty promises, instability, rejection, conditional love, abuse disguised as affection, and cruelty masked as care. We are starved for real love and genuine connection, unaware that our soul’s deepest desires are sleeping in the cavern of our chests. Because they don’t teach you that in school. They don’t teach you how to love yourself and see the world and every being in it as an extension of the divine source that exists across infinite time and space. 

To put it in simple terms, we don’t know any better. We don’t know how to stop seeking approval from others, how to stop chasing the dopamine rush, how to be okay without external validation or being the Chosen One. We don’t know how to reject this model of false love and exchange it for the pure and free love that is eternally available yet seemingly rare. After a lifetime of disappointment, confusion, regret, and isolation, we long for someone to change the narrative. We fantasize that someone will come along who sees us and loves us exactly as we are. And the love from this magical person will heal all the hurt we’ve ever felt.

This was the fantasy I had. I so desperately wanted someone to say to me, “I love you, I choose you, and you never have to be alone again.” Maybe I took the Golden Rule of treating others the way you want to be treated too literally. Because I said these words to anyone who caught my fancy. I was blissfully unaware of what true love was and naively confident I knew what it looked like. If I said all the right words and acted the right way at the right time, couldn’t I manufacture intimacy? With the proper formula and enough willpower, couldn’t love grow in even the most hostile environments?

Turns out it doesn’t work that way.

I blame online dating for strangling the modern expectation of romance and courtship. Granted it is a symptom, not the cause. The sterilization of online dating fits perfectly into a culture where relationships are treated as transactions. It makes total sense for my generation, being the first to grow up with the internet. We’re the first group of kids who didn’t have to go to school if we didn’t want to. Anywhere could be a classroom with a computer and wi-fi. It’s normal for us to have close friends halfway across the world whom we’ve never met in person but frequently play video games with. Social media became the new mall, and the actual mall became the set for a zombie apocalypse movie.

As a result, my generation is terrible at meeting people organically. Making friends is a struggle, let alone dating. It’s much easier to scan through someone’s pictures, know their zodiac sign, whether they’re a cat or dog person, whether they want kids, how tall they are, and their favorite hobbies. Everything you’d want to know on a first date is conveniently laid out for you in a 30-second snapshot. You don’t even have to go through the humiliation of rejecting them or expressing your interest face-to-face. If you do meet in person, you already have a preconceived notion of what to expect based on their profile. And the majority of the time, in my experience, the reality is vastly different from the expectation.

I know I sound like a hater of online dating, and I am. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t used it. Unfortunately, it’s the new standard. The best conversations I’ve had with people on dating sites are about how much we despise dating sites. I met one of my more serious relationships through online dating. We used to fantasize that we met on the stairs at a house party hosted by mutual friends when the music was too loud and we both needed to get away from the crowd. We laughed and sighed, letting the disappointing reality of our online meet-cute hover with a silent tension.

This same person admitted to me that they curated their profile to attract someone like me. They were in sales—which was the first red flag—and said that dating is a lot like making a sale. You have to put the best version of yourself forward and tailor that version of yourself to be appealing to the person you are pursuing. I was a little offended when they said this. Was I nothing more than a customer? Had I been baited into finding this person attractive? The answer was yes, but wasn’t that what everyone was doing? 

It wasn’t until we were in a committed relationship that they actually showed me who they were. They were waiting for me to stay before they took off the mask. Because now that I was committed, even if it was to a half-true version of who they were, I couldn’t revoke my premature declarations of love without being an asshole. Had I been a little more mature and self-assured, I would have had the courage to have that awkward conversation. I would have said, “It was lovely getting to know you, but we have incompatible life goals and values that won’t work out long term. Thank you for all the good times, but I must be going now.”

But I stayed much longer than I should have. I tried to say the right words and act the right way at the right time to resemble love. I wanted it to work so desperately that I lied to myself and thereby my partner far longer than I should have. And when I ended things, it was sudden. I was over that relationship too long before it actually ended.

And there were the other dates I went on. So sterile. So full of expectation. So transactional. No one took the time to get to know me beyond how I could fulfill their hedonistic desires. No one courted me or put any effort into the romance of dating. No one wore their heart on their sleeve like I did; they kept it tucked tight under their shirt. I was starting to think maybe I should do the same.

I was losing faith in the art of dating. Not that I was trying, really. I had tried too hard for too long to no avail. So, I was experimenting by actively not trying.

And isn’t it always when you aren’t looking for something that the thing you weren’t looking for comes waltzing into your life?

In my case, it came dancing under the disco ball, wearing a mesh long-sleeve layered under a tie-dye shirt, asking for my number. I pretended not to anxiously await a text when I got home, the modern equivalent of checking your answering machine.

I was flattered and a little dumbfounded. No one asks for your number anymore. No one approaches a stranger they find attractive, introduces themselves, and exchanges numbers. That’s only something that happens in the movies. The internet has completely squashed any possibility of organic dating. Or so I thought.

When you meet someone in person, you don’t get to see their profile. You have to study their face, catch the color of their eyes and the way they style their hair. Notice the way they dress, the way they carry themself, how they interact with their friends. Make eye contact, but not for too long. The trick is to do all this without them realizing it. It’s okay if they suspect something. You want them to know you’re interested. But be sly about it. These are the building blocks of flirting.

After this is established, introduce yourself. Offer them a compliment, but only if it’s sincere. If there’s something admirable that stands out to you, tell them. The more specific, the better. Avoid stock phrases like, “You’re so hot/beautiful/sexy/etc.” What is unique about this person that makes them attractive? No need to force a compliment if something doesn’t feel natural. But there must be something about this person that you find appealing, so why not tell them? 

Don’t kiss them. Don’t hold them or touch them any differently than you would a friend. Don’t sleep with them. Exchange phone numbers or an equivalent communication medium. Avoid sharing social media if you can. This keeps the mystique alive. Arrange a time and place to get to know each other one-on-one. They might say yes or no. Either way, it’s good news. If they say no, the work for you is over. You can go back to living your peaceful life just the way it was before. If they say yes, you have the exciting opportunity to get to know someone new.

When you arrive at a time and place to get to know each other one-on-one, ask questions. What are their likes, dislikes, hopes, fears, goals, passions, interests? What can you relate to or bond over? Whether or not you have things in common, it’s good news. If you don’t have much in common, you have the privilege of learning a different perspective. If you have plenty in common, it’s even more serendipitous that you and this former stranger have a seemingly endless list of things to talk about.

If things go well and you both enjoy yourselves, keep doing this. Keep going on dates, spending time together, talking, and getting to know each other. Space it out as it feels right. There’s no need to rush. All you need to do right now is keep living your life. Keep living your life exactly as you have been, with the addition of seeing this special person from time to time. The rest will sort itself out.

But you can’t jump straight to the end. You can’t make a flower bloom before its season. The harder you hold on, the more it slips away. And trust me, I know.

People change all the time, some faster than others. When you commit to a relationship with someone, the person you’re committing to now won’t be the same in a year, ten years, or twenty. And you won’t be the same either. So never stop dating. Never stop getting to know each other. Never stop flirting and asking each other questions. Never stop bringing surprise gifts and planning activities together. Never stop hanging on their every word and gazing into each other’s eyes over candlelight. What people most often don’t realize about the art of dating is that it doesn’t end after the beginning of the relationship. It shouldn’t, at least. 

Dating is an art, a dance. Sometimes it feels like an ancient language that we all know bits and pieces of but struggle to converse in. But romance is alive and well, my friends. The art of dating is a practice. It’s just up to you to breathe life into it.

My sincerest apologies in advance to anyone who doesn’t want me to write about our personal relationships. I do my best to keep all characters in my non-fiction writing anonymous. If you were worried about having your personal life exposed in the most poetic way, you shouldn’t have gotten involved with a writer.