About nine months into our marriage my husband remembered my one-time interest in learning how to fly. Small planes are his passion.
“What happened?” he asked. “You loved flying. You wanted to get your license. When we were dating we used to fly all the time. Now that we’re married you never ask me to take you flying anymore.”
“You do what you have to,” I said.
I thought he knew the rules of the dating game.
I wasn’t intentionally deceiving him. True, learning to fly never crossed my mind before I met him. But I loved him. He loved me. He loved flying.
So I loved flying too. And it was a way of spending time together shoulder-to-shoulder in a two-seater tin can with wings and struts and wheels that didn’t retract.
It was so exciting. So reckless. So romantic. So ridiculous.
Jewish women don’t become pilots.
But that’s what dating is. Being who you think your true love wants you to be.
“Look,” I said, showing Joe the singles ads in the newspaper. “Why are all these people single? Do you really think they’re as adventurous, as exciting, as fit, athletic, trim, funny, good-looking and fond of moonlight walks on the beach as they say they are?”
Of course they’re not. It’s who they’d like to be. Who they think someone else would like to date. Who they’d like to date. It’s like applying for a job. If you’ve turned on a computer and opened a program you’re an “experienced computer operator, familiar with most office software applications.” It’s exactly what an employer expects when he advertises for someone with the qualifications of Bill Gates at a chopped liver salary.
It makes sense — if everyone understands the rules of the game. No one would ever get a date if they told the truth. Can you imagine answering a singles ad that said:
“Single, overweight, balding male, hates extravagance, loves television, beer and scratching, seeks woman who likes to cook, clean and pick up dirty socks.”
That may be what it comes down to, but it won’t get you on the road to happily ever after. Mr. Moonlight Walk will never hook up with Ms. Candlelight Dinner, the 50-year-young rock climber, if he says what’s really on his mind. But 10 or 20 years down the road, they may be a happily married couple without the bungee jumps, Himalayan hikes or even getting out to see a musical show.
It’s all about compatible self-fantasies and presenting yourself in the best light. You’ve got to be willing to do that much.
Like this guy whose phone number my Aunt Mae once gave me. He was single. I was single. He was a Jewish doctor. I was a Jewish lawyer. The chuppah was practically on order.
So I called.
We had a very long five-minute conversation. I talked. He grunted.
Finally I said, “So, I guess I should tell my Aunt Mae we’re not getting married.”
He wasn’t a candidate for the future. No false pretenses.
Pretending to be someone you’re not but would like to be is fun and exciting. Experimenting with a new persona. Trying things you’ve never done before.
Like going on a macrobiotic diet or buying new dishes and kashering your kitchen because you’re dating a rabbinical student. But even with the best intentions, there’s only so long you can fool yourself. Eventually the craving for a piece of chocolate or a cheeseburger will get the better of you. And if by that time the relationship is on solid footing, diet becomes negotiable.
Dating is like finding a house with curb appeal. It gets you to walk in. Then, if it has the right number of bedrooms, baths and is in the right location, you buy it. Later you discover the roof leaks, the toilet in the guest bathroom backs up and your Cuisinart shorts out the whole electrical system. But it doesn’t matter because the house is yours and it has charm, personality and character. And you love it.
It’s the same with dating.
Aunt Mae’s referral didn’t have any curb appeal. Other guys were short one bath.
But when all the ingredients are there, you can work out the details with buckets, a sign on the bathroom door and chopping by hand.
And all you know is you can’t imagine ever having lived anywhere else.