The name of this column is Dateland, and it was originally designed to talk about my dating life. But that was two long-term relationships ago. Apparently, once you enter a “committed” relationship, you are no longer allowed to date. Even if you use the really good excuse that you need material for your dating column.
My long-term relationships kind of….errr….overlapped, so I didn’t get a chance to sneak a few dates in-between. That might explain why this column has not focused on dating in recent years, but rather on the tiny thrills that momentarily interrupt middle-age malaise, like my inability to find baby lima beans at supermarkets.
Well, good news! The streak is broken. Last weekend, I went on a date. My girlfriend organized the date, which may explain why it went so horribly wrong. I need to reveal a cold, hard, fact about long-term relationships: after a few years, you run out of things to talk about. I knew my relationship was getting musty when my girlfriend and I spent a solid half-hour discussing the many charms of Morning Star faux meat products.“We need to get some fresh blood into this relationship,” I said, following the stunningly dull Morningstar conversation. My girlfriend perked up. She’s much more sexually adventurous than I, and she immediately began fantasizing about luring some sad character into a threesome. I disabused her of this notion with a disgusted sigh that signaled I knew exactly where her filthy mind had wandered. I think consenting adults should do whatever the hell they want to do with each other, but threesomes, foursomes, or whateversomes are not for me. I’m incredibly self-absorbed and have enough trouble focusing on one person, let alone several. And what do you do with these strangers when you’re done with sexy time? How do you get them out of the house? Do you have to feed these people breakfast?
So, I explained to my girlfriend that we needed to meet new friends. We have been isolated since the local lesbian community banished us on charges that our adulterous affair had displeased God, or caused a plague of frogs and locusts, or created some other Old Testament-type catastrophe. We were cast out into the wilderness. I mean this literally. We live in a remote cabin in the woods.
Thus, it’s been just the two of us—and our Morningstar meatless products—against the world! It was both devastating and thrilling to be the focus of so much bad energy. But the local lesbian cabal has long since moved on to new dramas, and now we both long for the exciting days of being pariahs. At least it gave us something interesting to chat about.
My girlfriend is a can-do gal. Give her an assignment and she gets it done pronto. So, it didn’t surprise me that on the day that I announced we needed to make some friends, she dragged a lesbian couple home to me.
They had accidentally driven up our driveway, which looks like a road, but actually dead-ends at our house. Just as they realized their mistake, my girlfriend furiously waved them up to the house.
They looked as stunned and panicked as baby bunnies that had been dragged into the house by a hungry cat. They stood in the middle of my living-room, mouths agape and wild-eyed, looking for the nearest exit.
“They’re up from the city and were looking for a place to stay for the night,” my girlfriend explained. “So I invited them to stay with us.”
“Well, this will certainly give us something to talk about for years to come,” I said.
(Stay tuned for our next episode, when we learn what a stupid idea it is to invite two complete strangers to spend a weekend with you.)