L.A. Affairs: I was on a date with my husband when I spotted a guy who was just my type
(Danie Drankwalter / For The Times)
The light was low at the Echo as Elliot Moss started playing his new single. The distortion kicked in, and my jaw dropped. It was a departure for someone I typically describe as an electronic music singer-songwriter. I was there on a date with my husband. We loved the new sound.
I was holding my husband’s hand when I looked to my right and saw a guy who caught my attention.
He was so focused on the stage that he never noticed me. He was at the show by himself, and I desperately wanted to start a conversation. I’m polyamorous; my husband and I date and have relationships with others, so a conversation wouldn’t have been out of the question. Despite several attempts, I couldn’t even catch his eye. After a few more songs, I realized that I had to take a risk and give him my number. The regret of wondering what if would have been too strong.
I was walking home when a handsome man stopped to pay me a compliment. In the days leading up to our date, I kept wondering if we would have a fairy-tale connection.
As a courtesy, I asked my husband if I could slip someone my number. He looked around and instantly identified the recipient. After six years of polyamory, he knew my types. This recipient was my tall, nerdy, earnest type. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
The bar sold popcorn, so I asked for a bag and fetched a pen out of my purse. On a torn piece of paper I wrote, “You have great taste in music. I’m not single, but I’m available,” and I left my number. Despite trying to catch his eye all night, I was suddenly nervous, my heart pounding out of my chest. I’d only ever given one person my number, and it led to a rather mediocre date.
As I approached him, I suddenly wanted to hide. Earlier I had tried to catch his eye, but now I couldn’t stand to feel the weight of his gaze. I tapped his shoulder, gave him the folded note and immediately ran to the restroom. At 42, I felt like a nervous teenager. There was just one song left. I didn’t see him as I walked out.
I had dated fun boys, toxic boys and all-the-wrong boys. But I wanted a partner who calmed my nervous system instead of someone who gave me a flurry of butterflies that dissipated.
An hour later, he texted. “Thanks for your kind note. That was quick, I couldn’t really catch a vibe.” We started to chat. I shared my dating profile, but he wasn’t on the apps. He was curious but just getting out of a relationship. Not single, not available.
Soon, his status changed: single, but still not available, working through a breakup. We kept in touch. I wasn’t in a rush. All the texting only added to the feeling of being a teenager, the anticipation building.
As we started talking about a first date, I admitted to already planning multiple dates with him in my head. The Museum of Jurassic Technology in Culver City was the perfect place for me to gauge just how weird someone was. Or maybe one of my favorite L.A. dates: the Broad followed by Angels Flight to dinner at Grand Central Market. I also had a surprise date option: something he would have to trust me on — no hints. He chose the surprise date. I beamed at my phone; he was also adventurous.
I told him to buy a bottle of Pinot Grigio that we might not drink. “I need to ask a Virgo question: Will you have glasses for us?”
“It doesn’t matter if I have glasses.”
“If we drink it, it does matter!”
I asked him to trust me.
I’m in my early 30s and I’ve never been married. Was dating a divorced man with kids asking for trouble? Some of my friends seemed to think so.
I picked him up at 5:30 p.m. Having talked about our shared feminist identities before the date, I opened the car door for him. He blushed, realizing how nice it felt. He had brought two bottles, so we could choose. I did not bring glasses.
I pointed my Prius toward Echo Park. When I started driving into the neighborhood, his curiosity piqued; he’d never been up the hill before.
We parked and found “Phantasma Gloria” by Randlett King Lawrence, an artist who uses the sun and vessels filled with water as his medium, turning his entire yard into an object lesson of how our perception of reality is subject to change with a simple shift of perspective. Randy warmly welcomed us, generously offering to share the bottle of Pinot Grigio with us using his own glasses.
Following dinner at Bacetti, we planned two more dates for that week. I also invited him to a polyamorous meetup I was hosting in downtown L.A. He accepted. My heart fluttered; he already wanted to be a part of my life. He already wanted to meet my people. He felt as strongly about me as I felt about him.
The second date felt as easy as the first.
When I wrote to confirm our third date, he canceled.
When I wrote to confirm the meetup, he declined.
I had felt unmoored in New York. The depression I had been riddled with in adolescence had returned in a new adult form. But would a return to L.A. win over my Jersey boy?
It stung. It felt like it was over even more quickly than it began. Polyamory is not a relationship orientation or style that is best for everyone. He was curious, but maybe it wasn’t right for him. Or maybe I wasn’t right for him.
The night of our canceled date, the Annenberg Community Beach House was having an ambient electronic concert. Underwater speakers were placed in the heated pool. I paid $10, slipped into the water, closed my eyes and floated on my back listening to Colloboh play. As the sun dipped farther down the horizon, I walked upstairs and meditated to a sound bath.
In that moment, enveloped in sound, I tried to let go of my attachment to the relationship that was not meant to be — to let those other imagined dates sit unscheduled. As the crystal bowls sang over the waves of the Pacific, I realized that perhaps the most important dates to plan were the ones that I planned for myself.
The author works in higher education and lives with her family in Pasadena. She hasn’t given up on finding love again and again and again. She’s on Instagram: @valinda.weeee
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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