I Like You. Now Leave Me Alone
I want effort, plans, chemistry, and enough space to actually miss you.
I have recently discovered something about myself that seems mildly problematic for dating in the modern world: apparently, I don’t like being texted.
This is confusing because I do, in fact, like people. Some of them quite a lot. I enjoy conversation, connection, spending time with someone, laughing until my stomach hurts, and talking about weird shit, meaningful shit, completely useless shit, and whatever else comes up.
My oldest son thinks this whole dating thing is hilarious. Every time I tell him I’m going on a date, he does this little dismissive phtt sound and says, “How cute, Mamma. You’re going on a date again only so you can say, ‘Oh, you like me?...Now leave me the fuck alone!’ again?”
Honestly, he’s not entirely wrong.
What I apparently do not enjoy is someone gaining access to me 24/7 through my phone because we ate dinner together once. There is a difference.
A man can take me on a great date. I can genuinely enjoy him. I can drive home thinking, Well, damn. That was actually fun.
Then that night:
Good night. I hope you sleep well.
And something inside me immediately says, Why are we doing this?
One guy actually asked me why I didn’t like good-night texts, and I told him the truth. “Well, fuck. I don’t even tell all my kids good night, and they live with me. Why the fuck do you think you’re more important than my own kids after one date?”
Admittedly, that may not have been the romantic answer he was hoping for.
But seriously. I have seven children. There have been entire human beings living under my roof whom I love more than life itself, and some nights we all just wandered off to our rooms without formally acknowledging that sleep was about to occur. Everybody survived.
So when I’ve known you for approximately four hours and suddenly we have a bedtime ritual, I get confused. What exactly am I supposed to say? “Good night.” There. We have successfully confirmed that nighttime has occurred for both of us. Now go to sleep.
If we are actually in a relationship, that's different. If I love you and we’re sharing our lives, text away. Send me the picture of the weird thing you saw at Publix. Tell me the dog farted. Tell me your meeting sucked. Send me the inappropriate meme.
But early dating? My brain immediately hears Cal Scruby: “Leave me the fuck alone. Please.”
I have learned that some people experience frequent contact as reassurance. Good morning. How’s your day? What are you doing? What are you doing later? How was work? What are you doing now? Good night. Sleep well.
I know those messages are probably intended to communicate, I’m interested in you. Unfortunately, somewhere around the third check-in, my brain translates them into, Hello. I’m a Stage Four Cling-On.
And now I want to flee.
This has caused some confusion because I do like effort. I like initiative. I like a man who says, “I’d like to see you Friday. How about this place at seven?”
Excellent. A plan. A time. A location. You have successfully demonstrated both interest and executive functioning. Very attractive.
What I don’t particularly need is four days of conversational scaffolding leading up to it. We already made the plan. I will be there. You don’t need to keep poking me to make sure the date still exists. Friday is still coming. Time itself has not collapsed. I will see you then.
This is where I realized my definition of communication might be slightly different from other people’s. I don’t want vagueness. I don’t want somebody disappearing for three weeks and wandering back in with “wyd?” I don’t want crumbs or last-minute invitations because you suddenly discovered you have nothing better to do. But I also don’t want constant access.
Apparently there is some microscopic sweet spot between “I haven’t heard from this asshole in three weeks” and “Why are you asking what I’m doing again? Nothing has happened in the last 2 minutes and 17 seconds since you last texted.”
Repeated “What are you doing?” texts make me want to start providing increasingly literal answers: Sitting. Still sitting. I walked into the kitchen. Now I’m back. There was cheese. Things went well.
Maybe this is why some of my easiest connections have been with people who simply give me room. They reach out because they have something to say, because they want to see me, or because there is an actual conversation happening. They aren’t constantly tapping the glass to see if I’m still inside.
Hey, little fishy! Whatcha doing?
STILL SWIMMING, dumbass.
And instead of making me feel disconnected, the space does something completely different. It gives me enough room to miss them, think about them, wonder what the fuck they might be doing that could be interesting, and actually want them to text me. Which is a much better feeling than looking at my phone and thinking, Dear God, what does he want now?
Maybe that is the part I am still figuring out. Frequent communication isn’t inherently clingy. Some people genuinely love it. There are women who are absolutely delighted when a man texts them every night to say, “Good night. I hope you sleep well.”
I support these women. I hope they find all the good-night texters. Take them. Please. There appears to be an abundant supply.
I, meanwhile, would like one of the men who can go about his life for a little while. Have hobbies. Talk to friends. Mow something. Build something. Go fishing. Stare at a wall. I don’t care. Just occasionally forget that I exist long enough for me to remember that you do.
Maybe one day I will fall madly in love and become a woman who sends good-night texts with little hearts. Anything is possible. But at this stage of my development, if we had a great date Saturday and you text me Wednesday with, “Want to grab dinner Friday?” there is an excellent chance I will smile when I see your name.
And isn’t that kind of the point?
Anyway, this is apparently some of the shit I am still figuring out.