Chemistry Isn’t a Cure All

I clicked the small heart in the bottom left hand corner of the screen. 17 matches.

First on deck:

Freelance Copywriter and Creative Producer

Pass.

Next:

Assistant General Counsel

Heart.

I’d recently gotten back on Hinge. My last relationship had come to an end five months prior and, I was finally regaining some of my emotional footing, so much so that I felt the pull to meet someone new.

My ex had been a serious creative. He was a writer, but it wasn’t just that. He had all the stereotypical “artist” tendencies. He kept to himself (a certifiable loner). He drank dark liquors. He played Joni Mitchell records and generally despised technology.

But that was also why I fell for him. He gave me books he thought I’d like, crafted handwritten love letters and was a master of homemade artisanal cocktails. We could go deep (and fast) in conversation. He asked me questions about my work, my family, the house I was building upstate, as if to know every nook and cranny of my brain. His words were like a drug, making me feel prized, celebrated and worshipped all at once.

He also…reminded me of my Dad. My father had been a successful artist who drank dark liquors, refused to use email and gifted me books he wanted me to read at Christmas. He could also be distant and had a single track mind. This allowed him to focus on his work, which in many ways fueled his success, but also allowed him to ignore the emotional abuse directed towards me from my stepmother.

As relationships tend to do, this one was tailor-made to bring all lingering parental issues to the surface, forcing me to face them as a 33 year old adult. But when we were getting acquainted, my judgement was clouded by his creativity and intellectual depth. It was so.damn.sexy.

So when I decided to start dating again, I told myself “no artists,” in a foolish attempt to not get hurt again. I knew my thinking was irrational, but I went with it anyway.

There were lawyers, there were hedge fund managers, there were doctors — my plan felt solid. But then I came across Andrew. Under job he’d put “writer.” His first photo captured him jokingly gnawing on a turkey leg. He wore Converse. He desired to go wine tasting in Chile. I did, too. Maybe this would be different? Heart.

Andrew and I quickly began chatting on the app. He was warm and playful. Our conversation flowed as if we were sharing a coffee, side by side. We quickly made plans for dinner the following week.

Knowing I’d deviated from my “plan,” I decided to schedule another date. This time, with a lawyer. It didn’t necessarily tip the scales back in favor of my scheme, but it did make the whole thing feel more balanced. A few more profile views and I had a match with Blake, a Manhattan lawyer originally from Tennessee.

My first date was with Andrew. We both happened to be downtown, so decided to meet at his friend’s gallery opening. I instantly became more excited for our time together when I first spotted him. His smile was genuine. His warmth palpable. We fell into an easy banter, found our way to a quaint Italian restaurant on the Lower East Side, and were soon eating from the same pasta bowl. We opted for a walk home over the Williamsburg bridge instead of a second drink. We lingered by the waterfront so we could talk longer before he walked me to my door and kissed me goodnight. We made loose plans to cook homemade pasta together the following week.

The following night I met up with Blake. I hadn’t intended to schedule my dates so close together, but when they fell that way, I figured their proximity would help me not fall prey to my old relationship patterns.

Blake had gone about making all the plans. He’d suggested meeting at 7pm at a cocktail bar in the West Village, but offered to go elsewhere if that wasn’t convenient for me. His offer alone made me venture farther on the subway. On my walk from the train, I reviewed his profile to know what face to look for and was reminded of the picture of him running the New York marathon. He seemed wholesome and healthy — just what I needed.

It was a good thing I double checked, because, unlike Andrew, I had trouble spotting Blake. The bar was dark, making it nearly impossible to make out more than the backlit bottles of liquor. I glanced around and saw a figure with dusty blonde hair moving toward me.

“Oh!” I said. “I wasn’t sure if it was you…it’s dark in here.”

“Do you want to move closer to the window?” he offered.

“That’d be great,” I said as if we were arranging ourselves for a job interview. He moved the Old Fashion he’d already ordered to our new table, but didn’t make any moves to join me at the bar to grab my own drink.

Upon returning to our new table, I immediately felt my body stiffen. I sat up straighter. I repeatedly crossed and uncrossed my legs. I filled the vacant air with questions to mask my discomfort: Where do you live in the city? What do you do for work? What time do you leave the office? Where did you grow up? Conversation clung to surface level.

Towards the end of our date, after we’d forced our way through the basics, I was describing the house I’d built in the Hudson Valley. I told him about my home office, an upstairs loft with a built-in desk and floor to ceiling bookshelves.

“It’s my favorite place to create” I chimed.

He smiled and then said “I wish I had more space to create from home.” Did he mean work? Work from home? He went on.

“I got into painting a few years ago….it’s sizable for New York standards, but there isn’t much room for canvases and oil paints.” I stared into my drink to hide the surprise in my eyes. A lawyer — that paints.

Shortly thereafter, Blake and I said our goodbyes. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again, but I had to laugh. The universe can be a real riot at times.

As I walked back to the subway, I thought of Andrew. We had chemistry, that was clear as day, and I very much wanted to see him again. But my ex and I had chemistry, too, and a lot of it. In the early days of our relationship I told him “You feel like home.” And he did, from the way he made coffee in the morning to the way he took afternoon naps to how he chose a Hunter green sweater weave blanket for our bed.

Chemistry is a sly fox in that sense. My “no artists” rule, as ludicrous as I knew it was, was an attempt to beat heartbreak to the punch. The wounds of my breakup were squarely in the rearview, but I could easily recall how terrible they felt.

In the end, Andrew wasn’t a fit either. Not because his work was based in the arts — that actually kept me wanting to make things work. His creative brilliance and success were inspiring. But our chemistry ended up being mostly sexual. Even though we liked a lot of the same things and wanted the same things (marriage, family, babies), I couldn’t imagine conversation carrying us through the next fifty years.

I don’t know if I’ll end up with a writer or a lawyer. A banker or a painter. A doctor or a musician. Or none of the above. But I do know it has nothing to do with their occupation and everything to do with their character. In the meantime, I’m doing my best to enjoy the buzzy newness of someone while tending to my lingering wounds and maintaining a healthy dose of trepidation.