When we don't know how to say it, say it imperfectly. In fact, just say that you don't know what to say.
A heartfelt essay on communication, by way of talking about not talking about what it's like to date in my thirties.
Being single in my thirties is… many things. It’s like, nice to have skipped a starter marriage, you know? It’s introduced me to a lot of people, and allowed me to hear their stories, and has brought with it sometimes boredom, sometimes surprise, and disappointment, and awe. As I really have hunkered into designing this weird, wonderful life I’m living, more and more I wonder how a partner would (will?) fit into that; I spent my whole twenties having a posture of, ohh, I’m this weird little artist? who does my cute little writing, idk, where do you want to live/ what do you want to do/ I’ll just tag along and fit myself in where I can. And now I’m like, toot toot, this train of my own design is taking off, try and keep up and we’ll make out when we can.
Here’s another thing: being single in my thirties is a funny thing to navigate with parents who got married at 20. Especially being as close as I am with my parents; we talk about most things! Do I tell them about my most recent bout of Hinge bachelors? ie. the guy that couldn’t handle how much slaw was on the messy slider at Han Moto? (Can’t hang with slaw, can’t hang with me, my dude. When life hands you messy slaw, get in there and then ask for a stack of napkins. It’s not that deep... also, as a complete aside, my friend Sam used to take first dates for food that was messy or difficult to eat on purpose for this very reason, to see if they would be too insecure about it or if they’d roll with it.) Or the actor who said he was a film maker on his profile and then said he got a ‘contract tech job’ for the fall when really he meant that he got a seasonal retail job at the Apple Store in The Eaton Centre, and didn’t ask me a single question and listed every audition he’s been to in the last eight months including the casting directors’ names (I could not name a single casting director to save my life) and said he really thinks he’ll be on SNL in the next year because ‘he’s a treasure trove of talent and it’s time that the world caught up’? (Real quote.) Do I tell them about the fuck boy I was kind of hung up on in the fall, or the guy I went out with to pretend I wasn’t hung up on him who kind of asked me to move in with him after two dates and pretended he was joking but wasn’t really joking? Do I tell them about the guy with the fly fishing podcast who, as a 41 year old man, exclusively had ninja turtle decor, who took me to a wedding three weeks after we started seeing each other and then said we needed to slow things down when I went over and teared up because I got disappointing news about my book proposal and it was ‘too much pressure to support me through that’?
Point being, when my parents ask about dating, I don’t know what to share. And there was a point, maybe around the age of 25, when I was lamenting to my mom about the breakup with the sometimes-vegan-except-when-he-wanted-to-eat-chicken-balls-from-Panda-Express-after-lecturing-his-mom-for-twenty-minutes-about-how-bad-diet-coke-is-for-you (I believe my aunt Mimi once declared this guy a ‘butthead’ — a real technical term), my mum was giving me dating advice of sorts, something like, “After Sean and I broke up—” vibes, and I realized that she dated Sean when she was 15, and her context for breakups and broken hearts was high school romance. She met my dad at 19 and they got married within a year. (Not to say that heartbreak isn’t universal; I can still put myself right back into the fresh ache of my first breakup when Steve broke up with me two days before Christmas after sending me letters on red stationery for four months) (I think he sprayed them all with his cologne too) (and also not to say that just because you get married doesn’t mean there isn’t all kinds of heartbreak within any marriage) (okay).
Last February I was visiting my parents in Vancouver, and I had just started seeing someone, but it was early days, early days that ended up not turning into anything because, life, because circumstances, because timing, because whathaveyou etc etc. And of course my mom could tell I was kind of smirking at my phone and all the other embarrassing things you do when you’re a little smitten and 3000 kms away from the person. And Kath, bless her, just wanted to know. She was all who are you texting and is that a boy and what’s going on. Which. I found, how do you say, wildly annoying. I, a thirty-two year old grown woman, rolled my eyes internally (and externally) just like I rolled my eyes at her when I was 15 and she asked if I was talking to a boy on MSN messenger (if you don’t know what MSN messenger was, it was like texting but on your computer that you shared with your whole family and you could only talk when you and your friend—or your crush—were online at the same time).
Needless to say, I gave her nothing.
On day five of the trip, she and I were on a walk, and after a bit of trying-to-be-casual-about-it questions, she blurted, ‘Are you dating anyone?!’ to which I replied, ‘Mom, if I was ready to talk to you about someone I was seeing, don’t you think I would have told you by now?’
Kath did not like this response.
Not one bit.
But she respected my privacy for the duration of the trip.
My dad and I went on a hike the next day, meandering in the woods and meandering in our pensive and philosophical conversations as we do, and it was quiet for a bit before he said, ‘I don’t really know how to talk to you about your dating life right now. I want to hear about what’s going on and hear whatever you’d like to share, and I also want to respect your privacy. So I wanted to give you space to share whatever you want, if you want.’
His statement was revolutionary to me: he had a question that he didn’t know how to ask, so instead of asking the question, he just stated that there was a question. He named the strange sort-of void between us. He shared his intention, and his curiosity, and his discomfort, all while respecting my individualism and privacy, while also inviting me to share whatever I wanted. It truly was a gift to me, and taught me so much in that moment.
Communication is such a messy thing. It’s Life Work to learn how to care for each other in the way we listen, in the way we ask, in the way we create safe places to share with each other. We make all these executive decisions about what’s appropriate or not appropriate to ask. We feel tension and we don’t know if it’s our place to inquire about it. We see someone’s social media post about something heated and, maybe it offends us, maybe it makes our ears hot, maybe it hurts us, and we don’t know how to proceed.
Largely, we don’t know how to wade into the waters of discomfort together, and because of that, there is so much that gets left unsaid. We navigate around each other like ships giving wide berth, instead of coming close to each other, teetering in our little boats of big feelings and misunderstandings. We feel like we need the perfect words — no, the perfect statement — in order to even broach a hard topic.
Instead, maybe we can just name the moment, which is to say: name the feeling, which is to say: name the intention, which is to say: I want to be close to you. I want to talk about this hard thing that I don’t know how to talk about. I want to invite you to share what you feel comfortable to share. Maybe we can say, I don’t know where to start, so I’m starting here.
We need each other, and we need each other showing up imperfectly and often, trying and trying again.
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Nest At Beach Garden: A Yoga Retreat with Cassie Connor & Special Guest: Me
January 29th - February 4th, 2024
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Beautiful, Jess. A challenging and poignant topic. That last sentence, oof.
This is how I operate. I’m certain it’s uncomfortable to my close people but I also suspect it’s part of why they choose me. Love this topic. Say the things. Overshare. Be extra