In the past, any time somebody has asked me what my “type” was dating-wise, I’ve just shrugged and said I didn’t have one. After all, I’ve gone for all sorts of people in my romantic life: chubby, tall, bald, intelligent, not-so-intelligent, pretentious, patronizing, fratty, humble…you name it, I’ve probably woken up next to it (even if I was a little embarrassed thereafter). I assumed that because they had all looked and acted so differently, they must all be different “types.”
But then why, I would ask, does every single relationship turn out the same way?
While there was one, maybe two exceptions to my pattern, most followed approximately the same one: First, we’d get super close entirely too quickly without even realizing it because it “just felt right.” Then, after relationship establishment, we’d be attached at the hip for months. After an extended honeymoon phase, the fighting began because I would get irritated at their inability to reliably commit while they simultaneously got frustrated with my focus on having a “real relationship,” whatever I thought that entailed at the time. Each night, after calming me down, they would light up a joint, grin blankly for a while and pass out. Eventually, we’d break up and I’d move on to the next person entirely too quickly and…well, let’s just say it was the redundancy equivalent of the SAW franchise.
I assumed this was primarily my doing for a long time, that I was so terrible, I must be poorly matched for literally anybody. Each time, I’d go for somebody I thought was different than the last. Oh, look! This one’s _____ and _____, he must be the total opposite of stupid ____! But every time, I ended up being completely off-base.
Whether it was due to my being treated like a small child because of a 24-month age gap, being perpetually lied to about ridiculous topics or our relationship having the emotional range of Chris Brown’s neck tattoo, each one finished up similarly: I felt hurt, they felt frustrated and we both felt trapped.
Obviously, the only common denominator in all my shitty relationships is me. I am admittedly a difficult person to be with: I’m extremely stubborn, emotional and if you could make a diorama out of my daily feelings, it would look like a topographic map of the Grand Canyon. Yet the majority of them essentially sucked the life out of the rest of their relationships, too, so I felt the need to determine what exactly was going wrong from the very beginning of each relationship. I would ask myself incredibly stupid questions about the commonalities between each partner: Was it the fact that they all skateboard? Or perhaps that they all work in film?
Finally, it hit me a few months ago while I was standing at my own going away party in LA. Perhaps it was the sixteen whiskey gingers coursing through my system or the fact that I was smoking on a porch with four people I’d dated side-by-side, but it finally came to me: I do have a type and unfortunately, it’s one that I definitely do not belong with.