As a general rule, I’d rather pay $10 to watch a romantic comedy of errors at AMC Loews than watch my life become one, free of charge. Too bad 2009 has been, so far, the year of comical dating.
January and February, at least.
For a good 60-something days, life was surreal enough to make me wonder what corner Ashton Kutcher was hiding around. Or a guard from the mental hospital my date had giddily fled to grab coffee. It’s either very great or very awful when you are forced to stare into space, like a character on ‘The Office,’ breaking the fourth wall that separates you from your subconscious to make that face. The one that says, ‘Seriously?’
It all started with an unofficial New Year’s resolution.
I tend to date primarily in my social circle, or just a few trusty degrees away. But 21 seemed like the age to break away from the routine. It was time to scout for strangers. Which is partly what got me in trouble.
But there was something else.
After a serious break up last year, maybe I had unconsciously decided on my penance, or, alternatively, my therapy:’ jumping headlong into fleeting situations with clear mismatches, to remind myself that nothing ‘- even a good thing ‘- should be taken so seriously. Based on my outstanding success rate, it’s hard to imagine I wasn’t making at least some sort of effort. There are already three tally marks on my uncharacteristically flip list of this year’s false-start romances.
So, whether or not I willed it upon myself, some perverse strain of hilarity commandeered my love life ‘- even though it was less ‘ha-ha funny’ than ‘oh-damn funny.’
Like when a 28-year-old courter ‘joked’ that I should lie to his dad about my age.
After we each let out a couple of exasperated laughs, he switched on his stern ‘No, really’ look. Or the time he said he’d love to be my boyfriend, but was just ‘too busy enjoying the presents on Christmas morning to clean up the wrapping paper.’
For the record, I was the offending wrapping paper.
Or, of course, when he stiffly confirmed that nope, I am not photogenic ‘- and with the same dry candor a scientist would use to corroborate a fact with empirical evidence. The evidence was that collection of windy-day pictures I didn’t want taken to begin with.
Then there’s the I-seriously-can’t-believe-a-grown-man’s-brain-could-be-this-dysfunctional brand of funny. For instance:’ A guy takes you out. He is Dutch and punny, so despite his prestigious job, you wind up paying for a round of drinks. After a week of radio silence, he writes to say thanks for the drinks, and sorry he’s been out of touch, and also, not sure if this matters, but he’s dating ‘someone.’ An L.A. actress, no less (you imagine it’s a euphemism, to make yourself feel better). But anyway, he’d still love to see you this weekend, because, ‘you seem, like, a totally awesome person. Seriously. Let me know.’
For so many reasons every day, you have to laugh. As someone more in touch with my emotions than I’d often prefer, my heart would probably explode if it weren’t for an equal-but-opposite knack for finding humor at every turn. Especially when it comes to delicate matters of a delicate organ. I said before that I may have duped myself into these relationships that, even from a glance, promised bizarre, sometimes painful, mishaps. But maybe I failed to give credit where credit’s due. Maybe, for the first time, I just knew well enough to laugh instead of cry. And well enough to walk away instead of putting myself, and someone else, through too tough a time.
While it’s a salve in distressful situations, though, laughter’s also the best possible way to celebrate when two people team up who actually get it, and get each other. I’d be pretty disappointed if laughter didn’t figure into the forefront of whatever functional, wonderful relationship I eventually have the privilege of other-halfing. Because it’s fun, and because no matter how serious love gets, it shouldn’t get so heavy you forget to crack up, in the nicest way possible.