Code Black

A few months back, I dated a guy who went nuts on me. Now, I have felt crazy before. I think we all have. Let’s not make this about me though.

He was really tall. I can’t say his height because I want to be a bit respectful and maintain anonymity. I’ll tell you that before our first date, my friend and I practiced interacting with his height. She stood on an office chair at work, and I walked up to her to shake her hand and gauge where my eye level would be. Turns out I was about mid-chest height. That could work. As a woman who isn’t exactly petite, I would love to find a guy who is taller and/or has bigger arms than me. This way I could live in the fantasy that I really was some sort of petite.

My mom, sister and I have what my mom refers to as ‘big farmer arms.’ At my last massage, my guy noticed my big arms and shoulders and asked me if I lifted weights. He described my back as “quite developed.” The last thing a gal wants to have is a developedback. I mean shit! To his  and my credit, I have been doing yoga sculpt 3-4x a week and this girl uses all her body weight for push-ups and planks. Now I’ve just got to get my waist really tiny and maybe I’ll look like a swimmer who farms.

When I first saw tall guy, it wasn’t his height that I noticed. It was the fact that he was a white gentleman who appeared to be either 3/4 Mexican or had just flown in on a flight from there. It was winter in MN. Ain’t no-white-body rockin a deck stain tan like that, naturally. After mouthbreathing for a cool 20 seconds, I said: “Hi I’m Andrea! And you are extremely dark! You must go tanning.” I couldn’t help myself, it was so unnatural looking. He glanced down at himself and shrugged his shoulders, like he wasn’t quite sure how he looked like human dark chocolate. Later, unbeknownst to him, I’d stankeye his Darque Tan scanner tag on his keys. Hide the evidence, man.

As I walked closer to him, I observed he had a very well-manicured look. Too manicured. It immediately concerned me that a man who looked this good, would spend more time getting ready than me. I can’t deal with that. I need someone to keep me on time when I’m primping and running late. I.e. he was wearing jeans with studs. Yep, go ahead and shake your head. I am too.

Upon hugging, his height was nice. But he was skinny and his arms were definitely smaller than mine. I would come to find out later that he had lost quite a bit of weight and was pretty obsessed with running. I could relate to his compulsivity. Although mine is more inclined to useless thoughts like obsessing over how tight my pants get in the winter. Let me be clear. I obsess, but not to the point of behavior and diet change. Hell no. I’d rather just have the compulsive thoughts, eat my uncomfortable feelings and buy elastic pants later.

So he had planned our first date and it was pretty fun. Brew pub, mini golf and drinks after. He was a gentleman and polite. (Not a common sentence I use in this sadass dating world…can I get an Amen, ladies?) I think he was 35 years old. He was smart, articulate and had a successful career.

What was not smart was the e-cig look. I would not date a smoker. I’ve done it before and no offense, but it just isn’t my bag. Good news though – I’ve now learned that I would rather date a real smoker than a pose-smoker. I mean honestly. Blueberry flavored nonsense and when he inhaled, it sounded like one of those party favor toys that whirls and clicks. And it’s this large device. Like a super duty breathalyzer. No way.

My mother would say: “that’s queer.” And please know, she doesn’t mean this in an offensive way. She would defend using this adjective by saying: “That never meant anything back in my day! It just means weird. Strange. I’m not indicating anyone, just weird shit.”

I’ll digress to tell you my mother is very loving and accepting of everyone and anyone she meets. If you know her, you know this. She has a very kind and generous heart; this is a product of my amazingly wonderful grandparents. (I will write about them in later posts I’m certain.) While I was constructing this, it serves to mention that I took a break here to Prost (cheers) a glass of wine with myself, in their memory. 💙

On my third date with ‘Brown’ (as my mother named him, after meeting his darkness in person) we discussed our last significant relationships. He said his last one had ended just 2 months prior. This is kind of recent in my book, so I made a mental note.

By the end of the date, and the bottom of 3 beers, he told me his last relationship was actually his second marriage. And said marriage lasted 30 days. This is not a minor fucking detail, Brown! *If there is someone out there like this, I will find him. No doubt about it. I’m like a confused-mess-magnet.

He proceeded to tell me how he had been attending counselor sessions 3 days a week. Now I am not judging this. I like and respect counseling – I dabble in counseling from time to time, myself. The most sensitive, kind, insightful and accomplished people I know seek counsel and I think that makes them extremely intelligent. The problem was Brown was going to counseling thrice weekly because he discovered he was over his second (and first) marriage(s) and he was ready to date again. Picture me mouthbreathing here.

Have you seen red flags like this and continued to date someone, despite the pounding of your heart telling you to run? I have done that a lot in my life, and this time was no different. I kept thinking he’d been through a lot and maybe he could use some happiness and companionship. In hindsight, that was the wrong thought.

Yellow flag = Caution! Find out more information and then proceed with a decision.

Red flag = Throw those pumps off girl and run like a mother fucker! (He would’ve liked to see me take up his obsession with running anyway.)

We hung out for a few weeks or so and I soon realized he had a flair for the dramatic. He overthought, overanalyzed and made a huge deal out of everything. Turns out I was dating the male version of myself! It was horrible. And also a huge lesson for me.

We went on a handful of dates and I had fun with him. But if I hung out with him for longer than 2 hours, I would get real annoyed and then get a stomachache. I became Browntose intolerant.

After a month of his emotional highs and lows, I thought it was time to let him know the jig was up (Pamism). I didn’t want to dance around his high maintenance sparkly ass any longer.

The straw that broke Andrea’s back was when Andrea looked over at him driving and he was belting out a Selena Gomez song, off key and with the incorrect words, completely unabashed. I got embarrassed for him and then realized that wasn’t fair of me. He might find someone someday who actually thinks that’s cute. But it wasn’t this girl.

I told him I was not feeling excited about us and that it would be best if we stopped dating. I told him I saw him more as a friend. This was 100% true; I was just not attracted to him, inside or out. He said he was really sad I felt that way and he thought the last few weeks had been “extremely meaningful.” I couldn’t tell him I wasn’t attracted to him outright, that would’ve been terribly mean. (Catching the irony?) He said he’d be interested in being friends so we texted back and forth for the weeks that followed.

It was a Sunday morning and one of my friends and I were eating a hangover brunch when we dubbed the name ‘Code Black.’ I remembered Brown and I had texted the night before so I wrote him to ask for hangover remedies. He responded something to the effect of: “I cannot believe you’re messaging me like nothing happened last night! I am appalled at the way you treated me and I am extremely hurt.”

I was confused as shit so I asked my friend what she knew and we investigated the previous night’s messages. All we could come up with is that I had told him he could come meet up with us if he was in the neighborhood. And somewhere in our convo, he and I reiterated the fact that we weren’t a match for each other. That we were better off friends. It seemed like a neutral enough exchange that night, until I read: “I’ll never get over what you did to me Andrea.” My response: “Haha, you mean being honest and telling you I didn’t want to date you? That is normal [Brown], that is what dating is about.” Him: “Maybe that’s normal for you, but I’ll never get over it. It hurt me badly and I won’t forget that. Don’t bother writing me back, I’m pretty stubborn when it comes to these things. Have a good life.” Mmmhmm, ok chump. That’s when I stopped responding to him the night before.

He had detonated in 3 minutes of text. And apparently shame on me for asking about hangover remedies the next morning. He was the guy who thought roadies were a good idea, so I figured he’d have some insight. Joke was on me.

As my friend and I enjoyed the rest of our greasy meal, we laughed. Brown proceeded to block my number and discontinued our deep FB friendship. (Eyerolling so much I could be seizing.) This is how he went from ‘Brown’ to ‘Code Black.’ That is short for frigging crazy, unreasonable and a Stage 5 Clinger.

I will close with an apology to the various men I’ve dated who I behaved unreasonably toward. Who I overreacted to and flew like a bat-shit crazy chick out of left field, straight for their jugular. I’m sorry. My behavior was a reflection of myself at that time and whatever insecurities were happening within.

Additonally, I’d like to take a moment here to express my appreciation to Code Black. He showed me how a person can go from fairly normal to completely redonkulous, in 3 minutes. This experience has helped me simmer down my own cray-cray.

Because damn if someone else’s emotions aren’t exhausting to try to understand! Now I sort of get what men feel like when a gal is all up in arms and they have no clue what is happening.

When you identify red flags: break the wrist, (meaning the grip someone has on you) and walk away. That is sound advice from Napoleon Dynamite and I won’t disobey it again.

Good luck out there.

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