I really (really) liked David.
I was a 19-year-old, wide-eyed, excited kid that immensely enjoyed the attention from an older (by um, two years?) guy who wanted to wine-and-dine me. (Mostly from his apartment, since I couldn’t, you know, order a glass without being carded in my quiet, sleepy college town.) He was an engineering major with a big passion to design skyscrapers (and I wanted to live in NYC, it was fate!), and though his room was messy and his shirts smelled like mildew, after two dates, I was pretty much smitten.
We went to a concert together. He took me to meet his group of friends and we smashed a six-pack. We snuggled on the couch together, talking about our future dreams and goals and passions. We made out like we only had one dying breath left on this planet, and while I didn’t sleep with him, I did heavily practice my “everything-but” rule on countless occasions.
It was after about six or so dates when he dropped me off in front of my dorm and I got up the courage to ask the question I would later regret:
“So, David, I really like you. Are we, like, official? Am I your girlfriend?” It was snowing outside, and I didn’t want to get out of his car. In fact, I really just wanted him to invite me home with him, where we could spoon and I could finally give in to having sex with him, after of course, he confirmed that we were in fact, an item.
“Oh, Linds, really?” He asked, pushing his forehead toward the steering wheel. I wasn’t quite sure what to stay and my heart began to race, so I just stayed quiet and sweetly placed my hand on top of his. He instantly pulled it away.
“What is it?” I asked, carefully, wondering if I would hyperventilate right then, right there. “I mean, we’ve been together for about a month now, and I don’t think you’re dating anyone else…”
“...I’m not, Lindsay,” he started. “But it’s...I don’t know.”
“What? What is it? Am I doing something wrong?” I asked, eagerly wondering what the hell was happening with him, as the car windows fogged up around us.
“It’s just that you’re not exactly dateable,” he said. “You’re like, undateable. You’re so interesting to be around and you’re beautiful, but I couldn’t actually date you. It’d just be too much. I just don’t think I could ever, like, actually date you.”
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Needless to say, with my then-fragile and naïve mindset, I was pretty devastated by this news. I didn’t say anything to David—maybe I stuttered "whatever, bye" as I got out of the car—and I ran up to my roommate who reassured me that yes, YES, I was definitely dateable, that David was just an asshole and I deserved better. I cried myself to sleep for three days anyway.
It didn’t help that I had to finish out the semester (there was a month left) and see him in class. He basically ignored me and I tried my best not to think of the fact that he saw me everything-but naked. I never did ask him to clarify what he meant and I’ve dated countless (better, sexier, more amazing, awesome-er) dudes since then, but those words have never left my mind:
“You’re like, undateable.”
What the f— does that even mean? I can’t even begin to explain how many times I’ve laid in bed at night, alone, wondering if David, who I knew all of a month, was right. I’ve tried to make pro and con lists in my head: What makes me a good girlfriend? What makes me a bad one? Are guys turned off by me? Do guys think I’m not good enough to be wife material, but fine enough for a handful of dates and some booty? Am I too easy? Too picky? Too hard to get? Not hard enough? Is my career intimidating? Am I intimidating? Should I get my teeth whitened or something? It’s exhausting.
It took me a while (about 500+ blog posts on my personal blog and six years) to stop asking myself if I was truly undateable and to start realizing that what makes you undateable to one person may be the same thing that makes you dateable to another.
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I don’t know why David just wasn’t that into me (I did read the book, so maybe I should know) but whatever the reason, he wasn’t interested in a long-term relationship with me or even leading me on enough to drop my panties. If I think about it now, I didn’t know David that well—only really on the drunken, superficial way when everyone seems beautiful and magnetic and intoxicating. We never got past that one-month mark, so we never truly got to know each other. So maybe we were just undateable together. (Or maybe he really was just an asshole.)
Though of course it still hurts when I like someone and they don’t like me back (unrequited love never gets easier, no matter what they say), I chalk it up to incompatibility, not undateability. Call me a romantic (it wouldn’t be the first time) but I do think there is more than one person for everyone, and it’s all a matter of timing and connection and, more than anything, being open to the idea of something pretty killer.
And though it’s so tempting to blame a guy’s disinterest in you on yourself, more likely than not, it’s not about you—it's just about the connection. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not be with someone who wasn’t 100 percent into me. Or, ya know, calls me undateable.
Jerk.
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