I’ve spent five Valentine’s Days in relationships out of the thirty I’ve spent on this planet, and I hated it just as much in a relationship as I did when I was not in one. It seems to me to be just a (very) thinly veiled ploy by companies like Hallmark to make extra money for no reason. I mean, do couples need another day to celebrate their love for each other, when they already have anniversaries, and when they already celebrate each other’s birthdays? Um, no. Do we really need another day to draw attention to monogamous (mostly heterosexual) romance? Um, no. Just step into a movie theater any day of the year and you’ll find a romantic comedy there that will rekindle your belief in love overcoming all.
In a relationship / dating situation, Valentine’s Day has always been awkward.
One year my not-quite-ex and I were very close to breaking up, so I used Valentine’s Day (along with some recorded Elton John music and a surprise reservation at an expensive Greek restaurant) to try to patch things together. She ended up crying uncontrollably, which I realized later was the cry of someone coming to the ultimate realization that someone else’s best is never going to be enough. Another year, when I was dating a more masculine-leaning woman, I bought her a remote-control truck for Valentine’s Day instead of flowers, thinking that was a good idea. It wasn’t. About five years ago, I wound up on a first date on Valentine’s Day at IHOP with someone I believe to be a future serial killer, who told me in great detail about his love of torturing animals.
So being single on Valentine’s Day has never really bothered me much. While other people went on and on about “Single Awareness Day,” I would just happily think: I am SO glad I don’t have to deal with THAT.
Until, for some reason, this year. As of this year, I’ve now been technically single for 6.5 years. And though that seems like an arbitrary number – 6.5 – it is apparently my threshold on tolerance and contentment in the ongoing single life. Don’t get me wrong; it was bothering me before Valentine’s Day, too. It’s actually been bothering me since the fall, just after year six rolled around. I’m just now getting around to writing about it, because the curious questioning of coworkers and acquaintances last week, “have an exciting date planned on Valentine’s Day?”, accompanied by their mischevious smiles, believing my answer would, of course, be yes — but which were instead followed by my resounding Grumpy Cat “NO” — brought it all into severe focus.
I haven’t been in an official relationship with anyone since I started my gender transition.
In those days, I was quite unstable, often launching into emotional tirades, including frequent crying and yelling. I did not like sex in general, as I was uncomfortable in my body and did not know why because I hadn’t found the words yet. I also hadn’t realized that I’m sexually attracted to men. I had never had a full-time job, and I was broke – my last official relationship, I was on food stamps, and the relationship before, I was living on student loans. It was also before I started my current career (which began in late 2008), and before I went to graduate school, which I’ve since finished.
In short – it was a very long time ago, and though, by all counts, I would have been considered less “dateable” then than I am now – apparently, the opposite was actually true.
Oh sure – I’ve had my share of little flickers of romance. There was a guy I had a one-night stand with that turned into a two-night stand. There was a stranger whose name I never learned but whose gentleness with me still makes me cry once I’ve drank enough whiskey. And, for the first time ever in my life, I fell genuinely in love with someone. This person behaved as if we were together, but claimed we were only friends who slept together & cared deeply for each other, though, and that we were not in a relationship (a distinction which still confuses me); someone who, in the end, did not feel the same way I did.
But for general intents and purposes, my dating life went underground after starting transition. The reaction I’ve received from some people after telling them I date men (after transitioning to live as a man myself) hasn’t been particularly positive. Really, it makes folks uncomfortable. “Why transition if you just wanted to have sex with men?” seems to be the big question. For this reason, I’m “closeted” as a gay man in most areas of my life. Because I don’t want to deal with the flak that will ensue from my aunts, uncles, cousins, and acquaintances who know that I’m trans, it also means that men who I could potentially date do not know I am interested in dating men, either.
My job – now that I have one – which is a public, professional job, has also impacted my dating life. Online dating that involves posting pictures (such as to a dating website) is out, because people finding my stuff from work could be a very bad situation, even if it was all G-rated. Even anonymous online dating can be awkward, since I have to find a way to be sure someone isn’t affiliated with my work before telling them that I’m trans or whatever. And trying to meet people in person at a bar or wherever people meet these days is also difficult because 1) people generally assume I’m straight, and 2) everyone assumes I was born a man and have the… ahem… equipment one would expect with that, which leads to awkward conversations and possible accusations that I “lied.”
But because of the not always very positive experiences I’ve had, I find myself reluctant to jump into anything with anyone. Relationships historically have brought out the worst in me (see above, re: crying and yelling), and I worry sometimes about undoing all the work I’ve done. And yet… I’m really not that happy being single now, here, at year 6.5.
Is this an “I’m feeling sorry for myself” kind of post? The kind you should probably never post? Yes, it is. I’m posting it anyway.
Amorphous Amphibian 