“Do you have any dealbreakers?” He asked. My fingers tapped out the first thing that popped to mind.

“Married, gay, or going to fall in love on the first date.”

“Okay… I thought you’d say smoker or cat person. But I guess those make sense.

The thing is, I’m a pretty chill girl. I think of myself as accepting and tolerant–open-minded even. If I like someone, the details are less important than the connection. I have never had a vision board of the perfect man, a checklist of qualifications that must be met, even a “type.”

I can take allergy medicine for the cat, you can trim your beard, and I might even learn to appreciate the dual function of your futon. These are all things I can work with.

But the married men, the gay one, and the one that fell in love with me within minutes (and who still calls from random phone numbers from time to time just to check in)…those were problems with no simple or imminent solution.

Selfishly Scouting Side Piece

I have discovered a variety of married men who date unwitting participants such as myself. They range from openly brash cheaters to fuzzy relationship statuses and everything in between. I have slowly honed my detective skills through trial and error, and learned how to spot the signs. Always calling from the car or during the workday, providing vague proof of residence, abruptly ending conversations or switching to a businesslike tone mid-sentence, holding hands with a woman at the PTA meeting.

The first one did the obligatory kid photo swap with me during dinner. It was a cute pic, arm around his adorable son at a soccer game. I asked him if it was a recent photo, and he proudly told me it was just a few days ago. What a good dad.

“Cool. So what’s up with the wedding ring?”

It was conspicuously absent at the present moment, but on that tanned arm resting on his son’s shoulder it gleamed so perfectly in the sunshine and from the beaming smiles, I had to assume the photographer was none other than Mommy Dearest. He admitted to this, and said they were “sort of maybe separated, in a rough place.”

I had the distinct impression that she was most likely unaware of this status, though I can’t be sure, so I left him with the bill for a dinner for two that I would have otherwise offered to split. Let him explain the charge to the Mrs.

One of them, in a much more brazen approach, told me halfway through coffee that he and his “partner” (entry level vocabulary that progressed to usage of the word wife) split time between two residences on a carefully coordinated schedule and he was looking for a Tuesday/Thursday woman. Sundays were solo days, the remainder were spent together, and these mid-week evenings were reserved for optional third-party exploits. He couldn’t offer any prime time schedule slots just yet, but maybe a weekend spot would be negotiable in the future.

He said all of this as if it were completely normal, and I was so fascinated that I kept the conversation going because really, I couldn’t make this up. I told him I appreciated the honesty, though not the proposition. I treated him this time, happy to shell out a few bucks for this experience.

There were fake names, shady corner booths, solicitations for a threesome with the wifey, and entire sales conventions that must have collected wedding rings at check-in.

I know there are a vast array of relationships out there, and I don’t judge. If it works for you, keep a rotating schedule on the fridge, play mix and match with all the neighborhood couples, create your own harem.

Personally, the thought of having sister wives has a very practical appeal on some level. But it’s just not for me. I might not have been searching for a husband of my own, but I’m also not auditioning for the understudy role, the second-string team, or as the backup plan.

Passionately Pursuing Pretense

Let me reiterate that I am accepting, open-minded, tolerant; basically all of the virtue signal buzzwords. Love is love, you do you, boo. But if you clearly do not want to do me, what are we doing?

This one broke my heart a little bit, not for myself, but out of compassion for him. After some extensive texting and a few phone conversations, I was genuinely looking forward to meeting this man. Coffee again, as I had learned by now not to commit to a full meal. He helpfully told me how I could identify him in the crowd, citing the outfit he would be wearing down to the brand names and descriptors like ‘aquamarine’ and ‘heathered charcoal’. A little outside the vocab of most men I knew, but very fashion forward.

He was a gem; sensitive, honest, vulnerable. He told me all about his failed marriage, and I could commiserate. His had ended with his wife beating him up, causing him to live with his parents so they could help keep him safe — facts I personally wouldn’t have led with, but as I’ve mentioned, I’m very understanding. And he assured me that his parents were thrilled he was on a date with me and would be totally fine with him having “lady guests” anytime.

He was incredibly attentive, only checking in on the flurry of text messages he received after asking if I minded. The “other dance moms” (his words, not mine) needed his opinion on a hairstyle and absolutely could not proceed without his input. He told tales of his many platonic girlfriends. He had insightful opinions about arts and culture.

We talked for hours, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute. But with each one that passed I knew that even if he was some anomaly who would someday want to kiss me or touch a boob, I would not be able to muster any reciprocal attraction.

As the conversation, sprinkled with words such as ‘divine,’ ‘fabulous,’ and ‘yes, Queen!’ wound down, we circled back to the ex-wife. The rageful incident that ended their marriage had included her insistence that he was gay, a sentiment later echoed by his parents. And his priest.

“Can you believe that? Of course I’m not gay, I’m Catholic!”

Hence the tiny heartbreak I experienced for this guy who could not let himself be himself. The gay best friend spot on my dance card happened to be open at the moment, and I would have happily penciled him in, but to be his beard was not a role I was willing to take on.

Single-Mindedly Seeking Soulmate

Love at first sight, that magical fairytale creation, the part of every rom-com that has me mime puking and throw popcorn at the screen. Come on people, you can’t know me instantly, and I don’t want your love if it isn’t based on actual knowledge and experience of who I am. Give it to some starry eyed girl who’s primed and waiting for Prince Charming.

I would like to develop a friendship, coupled with chemistry, a deepening attraction on a mind, body and soul level that grows into love at a sustainable speed. I’m not above lust at first sight, but do not mistake it for love.

So the guy arrived to pick me up (before I learned to meet in public) slightly high, but cute and friendly. Teeny tiny red flag, but he confessed he was nervous about meeting me. Endearing outweighed off-putting, so we spent a perfectly fine hour or so together on a forgettable date.

He dropped me off, we shared the awkward car hug, and I probably said something along the lines of “I had a nice time.” Mistake number one. I agreed to talk again soon, without really meaning it. I summed up the date to my best friend with a ‘meh’ followed by a lengthy recommendation for a new TV show to watch.

The dude proceeded to text, call, email, like every historical post of mine on Facebook, find me on a Twitter account that was last active in 2014, and recommend me on LinkedIn. In a span of a day. My phone pings felt like an assault! It was a dry spell, so I probably would have even gone on a second date with the guy if he had just played it cool.

Mistake number two, I tried the gentle “I’m not sure I felt a connection” approach to no avail. My landlord told me he had dropped by while I wasn’t home. He professed his love for me in back to back voicemails. I finally put on my big girl panties, stopped being so darn nice and said as clearly as possible “I do not want to date you. Goodbye.”

More voicemails. More texts. He further professed his love and admiration. I did something I had at that point never in my life done, and blocked him on my phone. I had literally never cut someone off completely. I’m friends with some exes, I can be civil to people I don’t care for, and I don’t have anyone I’d hide from in the mall.. But dude…come on. My landlord was now alerted that if he happened to show up again, he was not welcome. No phone contact. I ignore even my best friends on social media, so that wasn’t a problem. But the phone rang one day months later from a corporate number of vendor I frequently used, and I answered. How could I forget he worked for this corporate behemoth?!

“I know I can’t get through from my cell phone, but I just wanted to see if you had changed your mind and might like to go out again. I really think we had something special.”

Hey, if I had run into him years later, struck up a natural conversation and had forgotten how incredibly intrusive he was, who knows. Instead, I gave him an unequivocal NO and moved my business from Lowe’s to Home Depot.

This was an important learning experience for me in direct and assertive communications. Those rising to champion “no means no” and concerned about my pseudo-stalker, I never feared for my safety or felt unduly violated. I was just really, really annoyed.

It was all of these lessons that led me to assertively, and with no sugar coating in sight, list my dealbreakers to this newest prospect. Neither a smoker or cat owner, he assured me that he was also not married, gay, or looking to fall in love in the next twelve hours. We secured plans for our first date.

I googled the ex (different last name, different address). Check. I saw photographic proof of his home that was clearly untouched by any sense of style or femininity. Yuck, but double check. He sure sounded masculine (by no means a foolproof measure), had been flirty enough with me and had fathered some children, so I felt he had some general attraction towards my gender. And he, like me, said he was not looking to rush into anything. It seemed pretty perfect.

My deal breaker checklist fulfilled, we met.

He called me his soulmate on that first date, and I threw something at him. Good sense of humor, check.

That was five years ago, and damned if that asshole doesn’t insist he genuinely meant it then, and still means it today. To be fair, he claims he wasn’t seeking his soulmate, and couldn’t help that he found her. Facetiously camouflaged, he snuck that deal breaker right in from the jump, and I didn’t see it until it was too late. I was hooked.

It took me a long time to stop rolling my eyes, and a lot longer to utter those gross words myself, but he got me. Love you, babe.