Unhappily Clever After
I am a 37-year-old gay man. After dating "Michael" on and off for two years, I started seeing him exclusively. He's wonderful, great fun, and treats me like royalty. His most annoying habit is his reluctance to let me pick up or even split a dinner check. He brings adventure to my life (like by taking me out on his motorcycle), and I expose him to new things as well. The problem is my friends. They aren't shy about insisting (out of his earshot, thankfully) that he's my intellectual inferior and any serious relationship won't last. Michael's no Einstein, but I can talk to him for hours, even if we discuss a U2 concert instead of Bono's politics. (Frankly, I have all the geopolitical, socio-sexual banter I need, socially and at work.) Before Michael, I would have described my "perfect 10" as an intellectual corporate executive with a body like Adonis. But, even if Michael became that tomorrow, it wouldn't make me desire him more. I think I'd be very happy sharing my life with him. For me, though, a committed relationship should be forever, so I don't want to start something that's doomed from the outset. Maybe I should rethink these friends' place in my life. Or should I let Michael go to spare him the "inevitable" breakup down the road and add "IQs below 150 needn't apply" to the personals ad I place afterward?—Accidentally Overjoyed
Most people start out with a list — the stuff they just must have in a partner. A list is a good thing, to a point — the point at which one's list, when bound, looks like the New York City phone book, and reads like it came from somebody who writes the small print for airline frequent flyer programs. Freud fans would call such list-holders "anal retentive." I think "terminally single" sounds more polite.
Too bad you, like so many people, copied your expectations out of the wrong best-selling relationship manuals — those written by the likes of Hans Christian Andersen and The Brothers Grimm. The fairy tale has it that there's one perfect person for you; you just collect him and proceed to the checkout lane marked "happily ever after." But, what if there's more to you than being merely a princess in distress or a guy in a tin suit with a really bad pageboy (is there any other kind?) who offs the knight with the big, black "Village People" goatee? And "happily ever after?" That's very vague. There's no mention in "happily ever after" of who, exactly, is on doggie vomit duty, and who's in the humiliating position of making up sad stories for the 1-800 lady when the credit card bill is late. Obviously, bans on hallucinogens were a failure, even way back in Hans' and the G-Brothers' day.
This isn't to say you can't have it all. You just can't have it all in one place. So your boyfriend can't break into Middle English to ask whether you've done the dishes or build a nuclear reactor out of common household cleaning products. The guy makes you happy. Not happy in the way you'd planned to be happy, but actually happy. You could drop him and keep reaching for the intellectual brass ring because others insist you need it. Unfortunately, the brass ring, should you ever get your hands on it, is likely to turn your finger the same color as all your "friends" who find it troubling that you're having sex instead of a sexual politics roundtable.
Dismiss Understood
After living with my boyfriend for five years he told me I had to go. It took me two weeks to move out; it only took him one week to start sleeping with a woman he met over the Internet. Though I'm lonely, I'm too heartbroken to think about meeting other guys. This guy turned out to be such a jerk — why do I miss him so much? —Tossed and Turning
I'm always a little afraid I'll be grabbed and held down by those department store cosmetics girls, then made over against my will: "Hey, I might write like a godless harlot, but I don't want to look like one!" Your forced transformation was more dermatological: from live-in girlfriend to giant mole in need of burning off. It's no wonder you're looking longingly at the past. Give yourself time to inventory what you actually miss — your routine, your identity in the relationship, your expectations for him and not feeling like somebody yanked the stopper out of your life, to name a few. Figuring out what you do miss should help you figure out what you don't: a guy who treats women like epidermal issues — moving onto his next mole candidate before he's had the last one completely excised.
Copyright 2003, Amy Alkon, all rights reserved. Got a problem? Write Amy Alkon, 171 Pier Ave., #280, Santa Monica, CA 90405, or e-mail AdviceAmy@aol.com (www.advicegoddess.com).
This article appears in Jul 3-9, 2003.